


What We Deserve

by gotsnolegs



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 04:29:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4946755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gotsnolegs/pseuds/gotsnolegs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the three years before the androids, Bulma and Vegeta face personal struggles that they are each ill-equipped to deal with. One night they find their way to each other and must deal with the lasting repercussions. As they prepare for the androids, parenthood, and life on Earth, their inner demons cause them to crack and break... perhaps irreparably as their budding relationship crumbles.</p><p>*Indefinite hiatus*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Disclaimer: I do not own DBZ or any of the characters associated with the manga, anime, or movies.

 

Author’s Note: Throughout this story, I have lifted some dialogue directly from the Funimation dub of the anime. Specifically, this happens when I am describing a scene from one of the episodes. Obviously, I do not take any credit whatsoever for this dialogue. Despite this, I have tried to put my own spin on the scene, describing it with my own style, embellishing details, adding dialogue throughout the conversations to add to the story I want to tell. And of course, with so little detail about what occurs during those infamous three years, this doesn’t happen very often. But how to tell Bulma and Vegeta’s story without discussing that canon time the gravity room blew up?

 

Without further ado, please enjoy the first chapter!

 

**WHAT WE DESERVE**

 

We accept the love we think we deserve.  
-Stephen Chbosky, _The Perks of Being a Wallflower_

*

_“Bulma and Vegeta, huh? Unbelievable. I thought Bulma was going to end up marrying Yamcha. But man… Vegeta?”_

_“They don’t stay together long. It’s, uh… more of a passion kind of thing. You know how stubborn they are. Yamcha and my mother are going to break up. He finds someone else, and my mom… she falls in love with my dad. Course, he can never admit that he loves my mother.”_

_  
“No shock there. I know them and man oh man, they’re the feistiest two people I know.”_

 

_“I know it’s bizarre, but they’ll find their way to each other pretty soon…”_

 

***

CHAPTER ONE

 

The sun rose in hues of pink and gold. Robins chirped their good mornings to each other; squirrels roused from their rest; raccoons slunk off to sleep the day away. Dew glistened on manicured lawns and the trees seemed to stretch towards the growing sun as branches and leaves shook off the night. Sunbeams crept into bedrooms, but drowsy occupants rolled away from windows to catch a few more hours of sleep.

 

Vegeta let the house door slam carelessly behind him as he made his way to the gravity room. The sudden bang startled a bird that was finding worms in the grass and it flew away to the far side of the lawn. In the early morning, the sound was deafening.

 

He pulled a bandage from his arm as he crossed the campus. He rolled his shoulder and felt his joints crack uncomfortably. He didn’t feel good today. His muscles were tight and his body was sore. He was tired. But he was on a mission, and he couldn’t lose sight of his goals for even one day. Limits only existed if he chose to accept them. He inhaled deeply, trying to clear his mind, and smelled the damp earth. The planet was fresh and ready for the day. He had to be fresh and ready, too. With this false confidence, he keyed the code to open the gravity room.

 

As the ramp to the ship lowered slowly, Vegeta allowed himself a moment to look towards the sky. The sun was just beginning to peak out over the trees at the front of the Capsule Corporation compound. The clouds wisped across the sky like cotton candy.

 

One day closer to the androids’ arrival.

 

All Vegeta saw in the golden dawn was death.

 

***

 

The sun was high in the sky and the day was hot and humid by the time Bulma Briefs woke up. Her alarm clock belted out a tinny pop tune and she unceremoniously slammed the snooze button, rolling over to block out the morning. But it was no use – she was awake. She wasn’t the eternally deep sleeper she used to be. Some nights, sleep came to her only in fits and snatches, her dreams haunted by faceless androids. They were her first thought in the mornings as well, preventing her from finding sleep again.

 

She felt utterly useless in their wake. Her friends were all training impossibly hard to save the word from this impending doom, while she sat around at home or went to work as though the world wouldn’t end in one thousand and ten days.

 

One thousand and ten days. Just under three years. It felt like an impossibly long time. A person could accomplish so much in that amount of time. Entire countries could be founded and lost. Children could be conceived and born and learn to walk and talk. Bulma could complete a PhD.

 

And yet… it was really no time at all. Lives could be snuffed out in a moment. Just a single moment. In three years, a person could accomplish so little. Or perhaps, Bulma thought, a person could accomplish so much, but not enough to make a difference. Perhaps Goku could accomplish the impossible, but fall victim to his disease.

 

Three years was not enough time. She needed to do more.

 

As the radio came back on, signaling her extra snooze was over, Bulma rolled out of bed and stood at the window to the balcony off her bedroom. Wispy clouds streamed across an impossibly blue sky. She could feel the heat of the summer day warming the spot by her window, despite the controlled climate in the house. Once, Bulma had lived for beautiful days like these. Now, she just wanted to live.

 

***

 

Vegeta wasn’t entirely sure how he had ended up here. That is to say, he wasn’t sure how he had come to be in a position where he was willingly preparing to help save this dusty planet, the very one he himself had come to destroy just a couple years before.

 

Had it only been a few years ago that he had granted Radditz permission to find his brother? Radditz had spoken of his long-lost brother before, but neither Vegeta nor Nappa had put much stock in it. It seemed unlikely to both of them that another Saiyan could exist in the universe for twenty-some years without them hearing of it. But Radditz had clung to his faith that Kakarot was out there, and one day, he caught wind of a boy with a tail who could transform into a giant monkey on a tiny little planet called Earth.

 

Even Vegeta had to admit that this was promising information, and when Radditz requested leave to go to Earth and find his brother, the prince had complied. What was the worst that could happen? Radditz was a weak fighter by Saiyan standards and wouldn’t be sorely missed while he detoured, but having a fourth Saiyan join their little entourage was enticing. Vegeta’s kingdom was growing.

 

And then, through the scouter, had come the information about the Dragon Balls. Mystical, wish-granting orbs in which Vegeta immediately saw the potential. He wasn’t particularly upset about Radditz dying in his battle with Kakarot, although it meant that his subject count had shrunk instead of grown. But what would that matter when he became immortal?

 

And so he arrived on Earth himself just a year later. He had been worse places than this planet. Its landscapes were rich and varied, which was a nice change of pace from the other shit holes he’d visited recently. The cities seemed bright and full of life. The place didn’t reek of death and fear as so many other planets he had been sent to purge did. The Earthlings were pathetic fighters, though, with the population choosing to put their efforts into other, simpler endeavours. The small group of warriors he and Nappa had come across seemed to be the only true fighters on the planet, and the Saibamen easily took care of most of them.

 

But then, impossibly, Kakarot returned from the dead, courtesy of the same Dragon Balls Vegeta had come for. He realized angrily that while he and Nappa had spent the past year in a state of hypersleep, travelling towards Earth, Kakarot had been training in Otherworld. He was stronger than he had been when he’d met with Radditz. He made a fool of Nappa.

 

Vegeta had been looking for an excuse to rid himself of the older Saiyan ever since the idea of immortality had entered his mind. He was not prepared to share that with anyone. What would be the point of it if he weren’t the sole inheritor of the wish? He needed some kind of guarantee that he could never be bested – indeed, that he would never have competition. So he killed Nappa himself. To Vegeta’s amusement, Kakarot had been horrified. Vegeta didn’t realize at the time that the Dragon Balls were no more after they had inadvertently killed the Namek.

 

At the time, his fight with Kakarot ranked first as Vegeta’s toughest battle. It enraged him that he would be so evenly matched with a third-class Saiyan who barely had the right to the name. The idiot had forgotten his heritage and his mission after a bump on his pathetic baby head. He had voluntarily allowed his tail to be removed. Kakarot was an utter disgrace to the Saiyan race! And, merciful idiot that he was, Kakarot had allowed Vegeta to live. Swallowing his pride, Vegeta had fled the planet, vowing revenge.

 

He didn’t expect to find the short human and half-breed on Namek. He didn’t realize that Earth had that kind of space travel technology. Everything else he had seen during his brief stay indicated that humans were mostly stupid and not much willing to push the envelope. But here they were, and with Frieza also on Namek, they had a common enemy. He swallowed his pride once again and teamed up with them, wondering at their foolishness in trusting him so readily after he had murdered so many of their friends mere months before.

 

He learned later that they had brought a woman along with them. He wasn’t sure of her role at first. Clearly, she wasn’t a fighter. She was weaker and more pathetic than the rest. She was also a bigger idiot than Kakarot, as he discovered when she flirted shamelessly with Zarbon from afar. It wasn’t until later, much later, that he discovered she was the brains behind the entire operation: she had repaired the old Namekian ship they’d arrived in, she’d flown it across space, she’d invented the goddamned _watch_ that helped them find the Dragon Balls. He had difficulty reconciling the knowledge that someone could be so vulgar and ridiculous as to flirt with Zarbon, and yet also be singlehandedly responsible for getting her friends to this remote planet.

 

Then, Vegeta had been murdered. Killed the same way he had killed so many: mercilessly, cruelly, while his murderer relished the kill. In a moment of desperation, he’d poured his heart out to Kakarot, practically begged him to kill Frieza on behalf of himself, on behalf of all the Saiyans Frieza had killed. He hated himself in that moment. He hated that he didn’t have the strength to defeat Frieza as he’d always dreamed. He hated that he couldn’t stop himself from crying real tears into the dirt. He hated that the Saiyan legacy rested with a third-class fighter who, up until only a couple years before, didn’t even know what he was. He hated that he had to rely on someone else. He hated that that someone else was Kakarot. He hated that his biggest fear was being realized: his own death.

 

And that should have been it. That should have been the end of Prince Vegeta. But with a jolt that made his stomach roll, he found himself back in his body and crawled out of the shallow grave someone had buried him in. He had never expected to be buried. He expected to be blown into smithereens, or else left to rot, but not buried. It was a kindness he didn’t deserve.

 

He wasn’t back on Namek long, but it was long enough for him to see that Kakarot had… transformed. Gone were the trademark dark Saiyan hair and eyes. Facing Frieza was someone else. Vegeta didn’t want to believe Kakarot was a Super Saiyan – that was _his_ birthright, after all. _He_ was the Saiyan Prince. _He_ had nurtured the assumption that one day he would reach this legendary level. But no other explanation made sense. Kakarot had chanced upon what Vegeta had cultivated his entire life.

 

He barely had time to digest what he was seeing before he was dragged halfway across the universe, back to Earth. Was this a _fucking joke_? He had hoped to never see this hellhole again, and yet here he was, joined by once-dead Namekians, the half-breed, and two humans.

 

That crazy woman had spoken to him in a tone that was altogether too intimate for his liking. She’d called him things like _homeboy_ , whatever that was supposed to mean, and _cute_. Fucking _cute_!? Vegeta never tolerated being teased. Even now, he was unsure why he didn’t just blast her right then and there. Clearly, he’d been so caught off-guard by her familiarity with him that he hadn’t been sure how to react. So, instead he’d given them the solution to their problem regarding how to bring Kakarot back to Earth. They’d been so grateful at his idea that they hadn’t even bothered to question his motives: he was determined to find out how Kakarot had become a Super Saiyan so he could do it, too; then he would defeat Kakarot once and for all.

 

He hung around for nearly a year, waiting for the humans to call upon the Namekian dragon and bring Kakarot back. When they finally got around to it, it was discovered that Kakarot wasn’t dead after all. It seemed impossible to Vegeta, who had so easily been defeated by Frieza, that Kakarot had survived. It seemed impossible to the others that Kakarot would refuse to be brought back until he was ready. The promise of his return hung in the air with no expiry date. Who knew when he might decide to come home?  
  
Vegeta wasn’t prepared to wait. He stole the gravity-enhanced ship the blue-haired woman and her father had built from scratch and took off before anyone noticed he had slipped away from the group. He would find that bastard himself and make him explain how he’d become a Super Saiyan if it fucking killed him.

 

He was running out of gas when Vegeta found himself at a crossroads. Kakarot could be literally anywhere in the universe and he had no idea where to look. He had started where Namek used to be, searching all the surrounding planets, but to no avail. From there, Vegeta really had no idea where to search next. Aimlessly, he ventured from planet to planet, terrifying the inhabitants but, to his own surprise, killing no one except for remaining henchmen of Frieza’s. Instead he told them that if they met Kakarot, to tell him he was looking for him. And off he went to the next planet, cranking up the gravity and imagining himself pummeling Kakarot and Frieza as he went. But as his fuel dwindled, so did his faith.

 

Vegeta realized with a start that he had nowhere to go. True, he hadn’t had what he’d call a home since he was a child, but there was always somewhere to rest. If he wasn’t plotting a course for the next planet Frieza wanted taken over or destroyed, he was bunking at one of Frieza’s many medical or research facilities. But all of this was temporary, because the next job would soon be delivered to him. He couldn’t even continue training on this ship for the rest of his life, because sooner or later he would sputter out of fuel and float for eternity. For the first time, Vegeta had nowhere to be, nowhere to stay, and no one to question him. It was both exhilarating and exhausting. He stared out of the window of the Capsule Corporation ship, feeling more alone than he ever had before and having nothing to distract him from it.

 

He cringed when he finally made the decision to return to Earth. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but he had discovered that whatever engine the humans had put in the ship did not run on just any type of fuel. He needed to go back and get more of whatever specific Earth fuel they used. Besides, he reasoned, perhaps Kakarot had returned already.

 

He had barely grazed Earth’s atmosphere when he concluded Kakarot was not back yet. None of the power levels could possibly be his: they were all far too weak. Where was that asshole?

 

He expertly landed on the same compound from which he had stolen the ship. The woman that greeted him had changed her hair to some ridiculously large style, but she was unmistakably the same one from Namek, the one who had invited him to stay with them in the first place. When she marched up to the gravity room, he wondered briefly if she would reprimand him for stealing her ship, or perhaps even demand that he leave. Maybe his invitation to stay was worn out, especially now that the Namekians had gone back to New Namek. But she shocked him, and apparently her lover as well, by telling him smoothly that he needed a shower and leading him towards the house. As much as he hated being told what to do, he _did_ need a shower, not to mention a place to stay, so reluctantly he had complied.

 

When Frieza came to Earth only hours later, Vegeta thought his heart was going to pound right out of his chest. He rarely experienced trepidation, but what he felt when he sensed Frieza’s and Cold’s kis approaching was mind-numbing _fear_. Frieza had murdered him once, and he wasn’t sure he was strong enough yet to prevent it from happening again. So Vegeta did what he always did when he felt uncertain or uncomfortable – he folded his arms and refused to allow others to realize his feelings.

 

Things spiraled out of control so quickly that Vegeta was certain he had whiplash. At least, his head had ached for the remainder of the day. A strange kid appeared and defeated Frieza and King Cold in no time at all. He was also a Super Saiyan. He knew when and where Kakarot would be back. He kept giving Vegeta funny looks. He was from the future. His world had been ravaged by androids. The androids were coming for them as well.

 

Who was that kid? How the hell could he be a Saiyan? He had purple hair, for god’s sake. Vegeta had never known a Saiyan to have purple hair and blue eyes. He considered – and then rejected – the idea that he could be Kakarot’s kid from the future. Both Kakarot and his wife had dark hair and eyes. He couldn’t see this fair-haired boy being theirs. Plus, why wouldn’t he have just said as much if that were the case? It had irritated Vegeta how cryptic the kid was. He had been hiding something from them and Vegeta hated being deceived. But he had relayed some very interesting information to Kakarot: the androids would arrive in three years, and every one of them would eventually die.

 

Vegeta saw this as an opportunity to engage in a wonderfully challenging fight. He wasn’t aware of ever consciously deciding to stay to fight these androids, but it seemed that he was going to regardless. He had a purpose again: achieve Super Saiyan status, kick some android ass.

 

He punched the air ruthlessly, the gravity in the chamber cranked to three hundred. Even though he could follow the sequence of events, it still seemed surreal to him that he was back on Earth, training to defend it.

 

He didn’t recall defending anything before, besides himself.

 

But, what else did he have to do?

 

He turned to the right and launched a ki blast across the room. It skimmed the walls of the circular chamber and as it came back around towards him, he turned and created another blast to hold it at bay. The energies collided and exploded, illuminating the entire room with a blinding light. Vegeta braced himself against the recoil and brought his arms over his face. The machine groaned as the debris settled. Suddenly feeling drained, Vegeta thumped into the floor, the gravity pressing down on his back.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a head in the window. He turned towards it with a snarl, and Yamcha ducked out of the way.

 

Just because he had agreed to help protect these lousy humans didn’t mean they could spy on him! He had caught him just the other day watching him through the window while he practiced defensive maneuvers against bots the old man had made. He also suspected the weakling had snuck into the gravity room that night while Vegeta had slept, although he wasn’t positive. Something felt amiss when he’d entered the next day, and there was a residual smell of sweat that definitely was not his own. But perhaps one of the many employees or the doctor himself had come aboard to make some repairs or do some tests.

 

Digging deep within himself, Vegeta found the strength to stand upright. Chest heaving, Vegeta brought his open palms over his head and launched another ki blast.

 

Outside, Yamcha chanced another peek through the window. Puar hovered by his shoulder.

 

“He’s going to kill himself!” Puar chirped anxiously.

 

Yamcha’s eyebrows drew towards each other, and he shoved himself away from the window, touching down on the grass a short distance away. “It’ll be his own fault if he does, the way he goes on like that,” he said before dropping into a series of katas.

 

Vegeta’s ki continued to flash through the window as he attacked himself relentlessly.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yamcha assesses his relationship with Bulma. Vegeta has an accident.

Disclaimer: I do not own DBZ or any of the characters associated with the manga, anime, or movies.

Author’s Note: Thank you so much for the positive feedback I received on the first chapter of this story, on all platforms (FF.net, MM.org, A03, and Tumblr)!

CHAPTER TWO

Yamcha and Bulma were… together. Sort of. If someone had asked him, Yamcha wouldn’t have been able to put a label on their relationship. They weren’t exactly dating, but they were sleeping together and he was essentially living at the Capsule Corporation, even if he technically had his own room.

Things were complicated between them. She had ended their relationship before her current houseguest had ruthlessly killed him, and they hadn’t discussed the issue since then. So much time had passed, so much had happened, and they were faced with such pressing matters that it seemed silly to bring up something from so long ago. Plus, she seemed to have forgiven him. She welcomed him back to the Capsule Corporation happily, and when he timidly knocked on her bedroom door his third night back there, she had drawn him into the room with a seductive kiss.

Still, Yamcha was hesitant to call her his girlfriend, if only because he was certain she didn’t consider him her boyfriend. He wasn’t really sure where that left him. He wished he had the courage to ask.

Did he love Bulma? He had once, definitely. He was certain that he could again, but he sensed that there was a distance between them that needed to be overcome. Regardless, he cared about her deeply. He was prepared to try to make her happy for the rest of his life. He hoped she would give him the chance.

He exhaled deeply, ending his crunches by resting on the ground, knees up. “I should talk to her, shouldn’t I, Puar?”

Puar lazily hovered nearby. He knew about whom Yamcha was talking. “Yes,” he said simply.

Yamcha sat up, determination carved into his face. “Yes,” he agreed, “I should.”

“Yamcha dear! Come and have some lunch!”

Puar and Yamcha both turned at the sound of Mrs. Briefs’ voice, and Yamcha suddenly lost his nerve. It never ceased to amaze him how he could march into battle (although he was admittedly more nervous since dying) but couldn’t find the nerve to ask his sort of girlfriend if she’d ever be his legitimate girlfriend. But he definitely couldn’t raise the issue in front of Bulma’s parents. They were understanding people but even Yamcha knew that lines needed to be drawn.

Puar looked at Yamcha pointedly as he got up and headed towards the door to the house. Yamcha just shrugged. “Maybe tomorrow,” he said.

***

Bulma had sensed that Yamcha wanted to have a serious conversation – about their relationship, she suspected. She wasn’t prepared to have that discussion. She didn’t know what she would say. She didn’t want to talk about the future because she didn’t know if there would be one. She didn’t want to try to define what she and Yamcha had. Her whole life she had been trying to make a name for herself and she was suddenly tired of doing so. So much death and fighting had worn her down. Why couldn’t she just keep doing this thing with him without overthinking it?

But she knew Yamcha. She knew his insecurities. She knew that without a “label” he would constantly be worrying about her, about them. But they had been apart nearly two years, and she felt differently about him now. She just wanted to ride the wave until it crashed. She’d figure out her next steps then.

So she distracted him from the conversation she knew was coming with kisses and sex, and pretended to fall asleep immediately after. It was only a short while later before Yamcha’s snores filled the room, but she herself wasn’t very tired. She wiggled out of the heavy arm that he had dropped over her waist and, finding some pajamas, headed out of her room.

She decided to go to the lab. Recently, Vegeta had been making short work of the training bots her father had designed, and she had some upgrades in mind to make them both more durable and more powerful to create more of a challenge for the Saiyan. She wasn’t sure if they would work, but now was as good a time as ever to draft out a plan. She knew that her friends often countered ki blasts with a ki shield, throwing their energy up around them to both help absorb the impact and deflect the attack. If she could somehow enable her bots to generate energy in a similar way, they would be harder to destroy.

As she passed through the living room, contemplating the best way to make this theory a reality, a shape on the balcony caught her eye. She paused, turning towards the windows, and saw the prince himself standing by the railing. The balcony had become his nighttime haunt while the Namekians stayed with them, but she thought it was because the house was so full and noisy all the time, and he had been able to find some peace out there. But it seemed he was drawn to it even now.

She wandered over and opened the sliding doors to step out into the humid air. Vegeta’s head turned almost imperceptibly at the sound of the door opening, but he didn’t acknowledge her. She approached him at the railing and stood silently for a moment.

Vegeta was an enigma to her. She had always been proud of her keen analytical skills, but he remained largely a mystery to her. He revealed so little. Sure, she knew he has driven, ambitious, and proud, with an independent streak to rival her own. She actually admired that about him. She also knew he was a killer who hated Goku with every fibre of his being. She felt that she should be afraid of him, and once she had been. But he had helped her friends on Namek, albeit reluctantly, and he hadn’t harmed anyone since being wished back to Earth. She felt that if he intended to kill them, he would have done so already. She couldn’t see any logical reason for him to bide his time.

There were also the little things that transformed him from a monster to a man before her very eyes: he sneezed and got the hiccups; like a child, he stared blankly into the fridge looking for something to eat without bothering to move anything around; he listened to the radio in the mornings while he was getting ready for the day; he was proficient in cursing, in all variety of languages; he leaned against the balcony railing and looked at the stars.

She found him fascinating.

“What are you doing out here?” she asked after just a moment. When he didn’t answer, she continued, “It’s really hot tonight. Why don’t you come inside?” She came up to lean on the railing beside him, stretching forward to better see his face.

He glared back at her. “Go away.”

Her face pinched into a frown. “This is my house,” she pointed out, “I will not ‘go away’.” Before he could offer a retort, she looked towards the large dome on the lawn and continued, “How’s the gravity room working out?”

Vegeta’s eyes slid towards it, considering it for a moment before shrugging.

Bulma supplied her own answer. “I’ll take that to mean there are no issues.”

Vegeta just grunted. He was irritated. His body ached from the strain of all his training, and he just wanted a few moments of solitude before he went to bed. It figured that the woman would interrupt him with her constant yapping, as if her presence wasn’t annoying enough. He wished there was a moon. He would stomp on her. But of course, he no longer had his tail. He cursed that fat bastard who had dared slice it off with his ninja sword.

“And what about you?” Bulma asked, turning back towards him. “How are you doing?”

Vegeta’s eyebrows furrowed deeper. He didn’t understand her question. How was he doing with what? More importantly, why did she even care? Just wanting her to go away, he figured the best way to get rid of her would be to ignore her. He doubted that even she could carry on a one-sided conversation for long. He turned his head deliberately away from her, closing his eyes in impatience.

Bulma wasn’t deterred. “Your training, I mean,” she clarified. “Is it going well? Are you a Super Saiyan yet?”

Vegeta tensed at the question. These were waters he wasn’t prepared to wade into with anyone, let alone with her. She wasn’t a warrior in any sense of the word. How could she possibly understand his goals? It was insulting for her to prattle on about his training as though she had any idea what it entailed. It was demeaning for her to discuss the legendary Saiyan status so casually. Besides, she knew full well that he hadn’t become a Super Saiyan yet. It was low of her to take such petty jabs at him, to try to goad him into admitting he hadn’t found that strength yet. Unbidden, an image rose in Vegeta’s mind of his hand strangling the breath out of her.

Once again, she interpreted his silence and continued on with her assumptions. “You’ll get there,” she said reassuringly.

Surprised, he glanced back at her. He hadn’t expected her vote of confidence. But he sneered as he realized she must be mocking him. Oh yeah, he would get there alright, just several years after Kakarot had gotten there, and at a much older age than that boy from the future. But the smile she gave him was disarmingly genuine, and with that she pushed herself away from the railing and headed back inside.

“Don’t stay out too late,” she tossed casually over to him as she slid the door closed behind her.

Vegeta scowled towards the sky. This wasn’t his first time at the rodeo: he knew what she was about. She was a sneaky, manipulative creature and she was trying to play mind games with him. She may have provided him with a place to stay and training equipment, but it was in her best interest to do so. She needed his skills against the androids. He knew her loyalty lay with Kakarot, and he didn’t doubt that she would send him up shit creek at her earliest opportunity. In the meantime, she wouldn’t let him forget that he played second fiddle to a brainless third-class warrior.

Stars winked at him but the sky looked empty without the moon.

***

The next morning, Vegeta awoke with renewed determination. Bulma’s words the previous night had lit a new fire within him. He would become a Super Saiyan. He would prove himself against Kakarot. He would make sure her jeers and jabs died in her throat. She would learn that it was a mistake to cross the Saiyan Prince.

His battered body almost gave out against the intense gravity, and he dug down and fought with his pride instead.

Bulma was frustrated over her lack of progress in the lab the night before. She had sat blankly at her desk, realizing she had little understanding of how to actually gather and use energy. She’d made a mental note and several Post-its reminding herself to ask someone. After several unproductive hours, she had gone to bed.

She had had a fitful sleep, another night plagued with dreams of androids murdering her and her friends. Despite the late night, she woke early, not surprised to see that Vegeta was already in the gravity room. She had begun to wonder if he slept at all. She felt restless and swung herself out of bed irritably.

Her movements woke up Yamcha, who had slept soundly beside her. He looked at her drowsily, a sleepy smile pulling at his mouth.

“Good morning,” he mumbled.

“Yeah.” She was cranky. In lieu of more sleep, she needed coffee.

“Where’d you go last night?” he asked on a yawn.

“Lab.” She crossed her bedroom to grab a housecoat off the back of the door.

Yamcha’s eyes focused on her. “Something wrong?” he asked.

She yanked the robe on and rubbed her eyes with one hand, her head bent towards the floor. “I’m just exhausted.”

He nodded in understanding. “You’re stressed. We’re all stressed. Look at what we’re trying to deal with here.” He laughed nervously. “Who knows if our preparation will be enough?”

Bulma scowled at him. “Thanks for the reassurance.”

Yamcha propped himself up on an elbow and chuckled again. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m just saying I know how you feel.”

“Coffee?” she grunted at him, and at his nod she disappeared into the hall.

He joined her for breakfast a short while later, and their conversation shifted away from the androids. It was a relief to discuss something other than their impending arrival, and Bulma felt herself relaxing. She rested her forearms on the kitchen table, her fingers wrapped around a hot mug. Yamcha spooned oatmeal into his mouth while he animatedly retold a story from his time with King Kai.

“…and then Gregory got smashed into the tree!” he finished on a cackle, and Bulma snorted with her own laughter.

“Well,” she said, chortling, “your time being dead certainly sounds more enjoyable than my time on Namek. Maybe death isn’t so bad after all.”

Yamcha grinned at her a moment before turning contemplative. “Well. You know. It was great to train with King Kai. And it was kind of nice to be there with the others, rather than just me by myself. But generally you do really miss… people.” He looked at her pointedly. “It’s hard not knowing if or when you’ll ever get to see or talk to someone again. You spend a lot of time thinking about… people.”

Bulma met his even gaze and she could see his meaning plainly on his face. He wanted to be with her, he wanted to make it work. Looking into his eyes, she wondered if it was such a bad thing. Were her reasons for holding back really valid? If they did all die against the androids, wouldn’t it be better to live out her final years happily with him? A smile made her lips twitch, and she pulled her eyes away.

I love you got stuck in the back of her throat. It felt like the appropriate thing to say at that moment, but she couldn’t make the words come out. Once, they had fallen from her lips so easily, so honestly, but today they felt like cotton in her mouth. She swallowed hard, and the words were swallowed too.

“It was the same on Namek,” she finally said, and the atmosphere in the room changed. “I didn’t know if I’d ever get off that place.” She shrugged. “I don’t know if I would have if not for the Dragon Balls.” She had never voiced this thought aloud, but now that she had it hung thickly in the air. She and Death had brushed so closely. She could have reached out and touched him.

Yamcha reached his hand across the table towards her, and she let go of her mug to place her fingers in his. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish I could have been there to help you.”

Bulma shrugged. She wasn’t sure how Yamcha would have been able to help. Frieza was so much more than any of them had ever encountered before, or even imagined. Yamcha’s strength paled in comparison. She had felt so small and insignificant there, far from her home and completely out of her league. She’d hidden in caves and hoped desperately that she wouldn’t be found by any of Frieza’s henchmen. She really hadn’t contributed anything to the cause. She’d never felt so useless before. Yamcha wouldn’t have been able to help her with that.

Suddenly she exclaimed, “I got turned into a frog.”

Yamcha stared at her. “What?”

“On Namek. I got turned into a frog.”

A bubble of laughter escaped his lips, and soon he was howling. “Oh my god,” he said. “No. No. You have to tell me!”

Bulma laughed at her own memory. “Okay, well… I was just really lonely, you know, and there was this frog that was like, following me around. So I decided, why not make this frog a collar so it can talk to me?” At Yamcha’s absolutely incredulous expression, Bulma laughed even harder. “I told you! I was lonely! Namek was a lonely place! So anyway…”

***

The mirth of the morning died after breakfast when Yamcha headed outside to train. Bulma showered and got dressed, fluffing her hair into her latest curly style, and found herself in the living room alone by noon. She was restless again. One leg across the other, she sighed to herself. Everyone else was working so hard preparing for the androids, and she was sitting there doing nothing! Her thoughts turned again to her bot idea, and she realized she had forgotten to ask Yamcha about ki at breakfast. What good were Post-its if she never looked at them?

“Hello, dear!”

Mrs. Briefs’ cheery voice cut through Bulma’s reverie. Predictably, she was carrying a tray of treats. She set it down on the coffee table, and sat on the couch across from Bulma.

“Try one!” she persuaded.

Mrs. Briefs was convinced that food and good hostessing were the answers to every problem. She was constantly preparing and serving food, encouraging her family and guests to help themselves and take whatever they needed. It was a good thing her life’s mission was to feed others, because Vegeta certainly took advantage of the proffered meals.

Bulma sighed. “I’m not very hungry, mom.”

Mrs. Briefs turned towards her daughter. “Are you upset because all the boys are training and not spending any time with you?”

“Oh, please!” Bulma exclaimed. “I’m just not hungry!”

Bulma loved her mom dearly, but found that they didn’t often understand one another. Bulma had her father’s intelligence and an independence that only came from being so self-sufficiently smart and wealthy. Mrs. Briefs, however, lived for boys. A true debutante, she had strived to marry a good man and have a happy family. She loved attention and as a girl had received much of it. Although she knew that she and Bulma were very different people, it seemed only natural to her that while she was still available, Bulma should entertain a variety of men and then take her pick.

Saving her from more misguided questions, Dr. Briefs appeared at the doorway, apparently having been summoned for snacks. He stretched his arms over his head, nearly knocking off the cat perched on his shoulder. “I’m beginning to think that Vegeta is a few cards short of a full deck,” he announced.

“Oh?” This wasn’t exactly news to Bulma. She had her own theories about Vegeta’s questionable sanity, but she knew so little about him. She wondered what her father’s take on the Saiyan was.

“Did you know he’s demanding more equipment to train with? And all he’s going to do is break it!” He grabbed a cake off the tray and took a bite.

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me at all.”

“Well, I think it’s great he works so hard!” Mrs. Briefs said cheerfully.

“Oh, sure he’s training hard,” Dr. Briefs conceded, “but don’t you think he’s overdoing it?”

Mrs. Briefs giggled. “Oh, no!” she protested. “I think it’s very admirable. In my day, a man that showed that much dedication to anything was definitely husband material. A girl would have to be crazy to let him get away, I tell you!” She took a sip of tea before looking up in surprise at herself. “Oh, my!” she announced, as though after over thirty years it had somehow slipped her mind, “but I’m a married woman!”

Dr. Briefs and Bulma stared at her for a moment. It wasn’t the first time Mrs. Briefs had made somewhat inappropriate comments about other men. Bulma never doubted that she loved her father, or that she was utterly faithful to him, but it did make her uncomfortable on occasion. Mrs. Briefs had unabashedly let her feelings about Vegeta be known from the moment he had set foot on the compound, first shamelessly (and stupidly) asking if he was Bulma’s boyfriend, and then frequently complimenting his physique, appetite, and fighting abilities. Bulma wasn’t sure if her mother knew exactly who Vegeta was, or how he had come to be involved with the Z Fighters to begin with, but if she did, it didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest.

“Mom,” Bulma said with reproach.

Dr. Briefs decided his wife’s previous comment wasn’t worth responding to, and instead he turned to his daughter. “Any plans for today?” he asked.

Bulma shrugged. “I don’t know. I have this idea but—”

An explosion ripped through the sky and rocked the house. Bulma was jerked forward and her hand shot out to grip the coffee table and steady herself. Her food smeared on her face before dropping to the floor. Dr. Briefs fell heavily into the arm of the couch, and Mrs. Briefs’ hands flew to her head.

“Earthquake!” Mrs. Briefs shrieked.

It was over only a few short seconds later. Terror tore threw Bulma’s heart. The androids. They were here. It was too early. They weren’t ready.

“What in god’s name…?” Dr. Briefs shouted, rushing towards the window.

Bulma clutched at her stomach, feeling sick. They were all going to die. They’d be killed on the spot. They weren’t ready.

“Jesus Christ, the gravity room!” she heard her father shout from behind her. “Bulma, it’s been completely destroyed!”

“Androids!” Bulma gasped out, tilting forward so her chest was on her knees. She was going to vomit.

“No… Bulma, listen… Vegeta! He blew up the gravity room!” Dr. Briefs’ words were ripe with panic.

Bulma heard him, but she couldn’t process what he was saying.

“Oh, dear!” her mother cried. Bulma hadn’t noticed her get up to look out the window herself. “I don’t see him! Do you think he’s hurt?”

“Hurt? Good lord, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was dead!”

The information started to fall into place in her mind. The androids were not here. Vegeta had had an accident. The gravity room was destroyed. Vegeta didn’t seem to be there. He could be dead.

Bulma was on her feet and running downstairs and out towards the gravity room before she was truly aware that she was doing it. As she dashed out the door, she met Yamcha who was also rushing towards the explosion. They looked at each other with shared wild expressions and as they came around the side of the house they could see wreckage and debris where the spaceship had been mere moments before.

“Vegeta!” she shouted as she took in the chaos. She wasn’t sure if she had expected a reply, but none came.

They stopped at the edge of the wreckage, surveying the scene. Bulma’s eyes scanned quickly for Vegeta but she couldn’t see any sign of him. He must have been in the heart of the explosion and still buried under the remains of the ship. She sank to her knees.

“I knew this would happen!” Yamcha announced angrily.

“Where is he?” she asked. For fuck sakes, would someone just locate him?

Bulma learned forward into the ruins. Seizing hunks of metal, she tossed them aside. Sharp edges cut her hands as she clawed through twisted steel and fried circuitry. Where was he? Oh god, he couldn’t be dead.

A hand suddenly shot out of the wreckage directly in front of her. She shrieked and tumbled backwards, caught completely by surprise. She hit Yamcha squarely in the chest, knocking him off-balance, and they fell together in a heap. The bodiless hand found support on what used to be a closet door and Vegeta heaved himself out from under the rubble. He emerged with a groan but appeared relatively unharmed as his eyes opened and he looked at them, tangled together on the ground.

Bulma stared at him, wide-eyed. It was a miracle that someone could survive such an explosion, but nearly incomprehensible that they could walk away from it. She knew Saiyans were more resilient than humans but she couldn’t quite figure out how his body had not been torn to shreds. But, she noted, he was breathing heavily, and the frown that pinched his face seemed to be one of pain rather than his usual irritation.

“Are you… okay?” she asked hesitantly.

“Of course I am!” he snapped, hauling the rest of him out of the wreckage and finding even footing. He leaned forward, his hands on his thighs, as he caught his breath.

Relief flooded over her. He was alive, and uninjured. But the rollercoaster of emotion she had felt in the last few minutes began to erupt in her chest. The man was an idiot. What the hell was he doing anyway? He had completely destroyed the gravity room! Did he have any idea how long it would take to clean up, let alone replace? What kind of batshit crazy training program was he following? How did he expect to become a Super Saiyan if he didn’t live until tomorrow?

“How dare you?” she shouted at him. “You almost wrecked my house! What are you trying to prove?”

Vegeta only laughed as he straightened. As if he cared about her stupid house. He had far more pressing matters to deal with! He was about to tell her so, but he felt his knees begin to buckle and the energy he had somehow found to claw his way out of the mess completely drained. He toppled backwards, agony shooting through his chest.

He was hurt after all. Bulma wasn’t surprised. Sure, he had the strength of a million humans, but he wasn’t immortal. He could feel pain and his body could be beaten. She hurried towards him, declaring aloud the obvious about his state in her panic. Gripping his wrist, she pulled him into a sitting position and propped his back against her other arm. He was heavier than she had anticipated, his body seeming to be made entirely of solid muscle. She almost dropped him back down into the debris, her own muscles trembling while she tried to support his weight.

“I don’t need help!” he snarled at her. “I’ve got training to do.”

Her father was right: he was a few cards short. Did he really think he would be able to train in his condition? He couldn’t even stand. She could only imagine how many broken bones he had, or what kind of internal bleeding. Maybe his insides resembled the gravity room: shredded.

“You’ve got to stop training for a while!” Bulma cried, frustrated. “I mean, look at you! You’re a complete wreck!”

Vegeta would not be persuaded. No, this was humiliating. Just last night she had called him out for not becoming a Super Saiyan yet, and now she was coddling him like an infant and trying to dictate a training schedule. In all her human weakness, she couldn’t comprehend his strength. Certainly, the explosion would have killed her on the spot, but he was a Saiyan and a mere blast would not slow him down.

“I feel fine,” he declared. “I’m a Saiyan, I can take a little pain. And I have to get stronger than Kakarot!” The last part slipped out before he realized it. His brain was beginning to go foggy and he was a little disoriented from the surprise of the explosion itself. Of course, it wasn’t a secret that he was determined to defeat Kakarot, but he hadn’t wanted to say it so openly to the woman currently cradling him in her arms. Did she need anything more to use against him?

Bulma decided to change tactics. He wasn’t responding to orders or reason, so she humoured him instead. She sensed that he was disgraced by the accident, although she wasn’t sure if that shame came from the fact that it happened, the fact that people had seen, or a combination of both. She tried to gloss over it and bring the argument back to the point that he absolutely, one hundred percent could not keep training. “Okay, sure,” she said gently, “we all know you’re a tough guy, but you need to rest now.”

Vegeta was not impressed. Was she trying to sabotage his goals? There was absolutely no excuse that justified taking time off from training. He had been wounded before, on many occasions, and he had always dragged himself back up and carried on. He was Vegeta! He was unstoppable!

“I take orders from no one!” he growled, and pushed her away from him.

But his vision was swimming and the pain in his chest was sharp and constant. His head felt like it was splitting open. His breath was shallow and the pain had begun to radiate out to his shoulder. His elbow felt fractured. His ears rang. He fell back into the wreckage and darkness descended.

Yamcha stood nearby, uncertain and confused. Something had risen up into his throat when Bulma had held Vegeta. For some reason, he thought of the purple-haired boy from the future.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulma deals with the aftermath of Vegeta's accident. Vegeta has a dream.

Disclaimer: I do not own DBZ or any of the characters associated with the manga, anime, or movies.

CHAPTER THREE

Dr. and Mrs. Briefs had appeared at the accident site just a few minutes later, with what seemed to be the entire Capsule Corp. medical team. They approached the wreckage cautiously, nervously eyeing Vegeta. They tittered about, making a show of setting defibrillators, first aid kids, and a stretcher down near the scene, but obviously not wanting to approach Vegeta.

It hadn’t taken the employees long to figure out that there was something weird about the Briefs’ houseguest, and it wasn’t just that his hair stood straight up and he holed up all day in a dome. He didn’t seem human. He was incredibly strong and had quite the commanding presence. His eyes were cold and calculating, and even the slightest glance from him was enough to send shivers down the spines of most of the Briefs’ staff. They avoided him as much as possible, which suited Vegeta just fine. He was completely disinterested in them.

Most remarkable to the staff was how comfortable all the Briefs seemed to be around Vegeta, particularly Ms. Bulma Briefs, because he seemed to only barely tolerate them.

At their inaction, Bulma grew frustrated. “Don’t just stand there like bumbling idiots! Do your jobs! Can’t you see he’s hurt!?”

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Briefs mumbled.

The staff jumped into their roles. They checked his vitals, pressed around his chest with trained fingers, muttered findings to themselves. Finally, they lifted Vegeta off the debris and onto the stretcher, and carried him off to the medical wing. Dr. Briefs followed immediately behind them, leaving his wife to dab at her eyes dramatically. Bulma had gotten up to give the medical team room to work and stood beside Yamcha, who was holding himself uncomfortably.

Bulma reached a trembling hand out to touch his arm and a nervous chuckle escaped her lips. “So. How about that?”

Yamcha gazed down at her. “Close call,” he agreed.

He seemed out of sorts. “What’s wrong?” Bulma asked. “You can’t tell me you’re particularly worried about Vegeta.”

“Not really, no... but you seem to be.”

Bulma’s eyes widened in surprise and she let her hand fall from his arm. “Well… Yes, of course! Are you looking at what I’m looking at?” she gestured towards what used to be a gravity room.

“Poor Vegeta!” Mrs. Briefs moaned. “Yamcha, honey, please don’t ever do that to yourself! I can’t imagine what that would do to my heart. What would we do around here without you?”

A warm smile appeared on Yamcha’s face, and the tension seemed to fall from his shoulders. He laughed. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Briefs. I’m not that crazy!”

“What a relief!” she exclaimed. “I’m going to go see if anyone needs anything.”

She retreated back to the house and Yamcha turned back towards Bulma. He was smiling at her and shaking his head. “You care too much,” he accused, but it was said lovingly. “I don’t think Vegeta deserves your concern.”

“Oh, Yamcha,” Bulma sighed. “I know how you feel about him. But he’s trying to help us now, and I think we need him. I couldn’t just leave him under there.”

Yamcha rested a calloused hand on the back of her neck. “Deep down, you just want the best for everyone,” he declared. “I guess if Goku trusts Vegeta, that’s enough for me.”

They stood together for a moment, their heads still spinning from the events of the past few minutes, before Yamcha finally withdrew his hand. “This might sound crazy given what just happened, but I’m going to get back to training. And you should take care of this mess.” His eyes roamed over the rubble.

They parted ways, and Bulma went off in search of a cleanup crew. Recruiting some employees but mostly reprogramming some housebots to abandon their daily chores and work on the gravity room instead, she ensured that the accident would be completely cleaned up by the end of the day. She was on her way to the medical wing when the doorbell rang. She ignored it at first, continuing down the hallway, but it rang twice more.

Sighing exasperatedly, she yanked the door open, prepared to bark into her visitor’s face that now was not a good time.

It was a cop.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Briefs,” she said formally. “Officer Takarabi, West City PD. I’m here to investigate an alleged explosion.”

Bulma frowned. Of course, as a company, explosions weren’t supposed to take place. Tests were supposed to be safe and secure, with extreme measures taken to ensure the experiments were risk-free. Dangerous tests were never to be conducted without the appropriate permits. Although the occasional accident did happen, the Capsule Corporation had, in general, a shining record. Bulma suddenly sensed that, with Vegeta living there, that was about to change.

“Oh. Right. Um…”

“We don’t have any indication of any permits being taken out for today. Was there perhaps some sort of mistake?”

“We had a malfunction,” Bulma stated confidently. “It wasn’t anticipated. We weren’t planning to run any kind of potentially dangerous tests today.”

The officer frowned. “I see.”

“Nobody was hurt,” Bulma lied again, “and the damage was minimal.”

“I need to take a look around.”

Bulma was irritated. She needed to get to the medical wing and check in on things. She needed to get the space ship cleaned up. She needed to brief the staff on their official story. Vegeta was, quite literally, an illegal alien in this country, and she was petrified to think of what might happen if he was found out. Not because she didn’t think he could handle himself, but because she was afraid of what might happen to the police force if they tried to take him in. Or the government if they tried to deport him to… somewhere. She wondered vaguely how Piccolo had managed all these years, and thought that maybe that was why he spent so much time in the middle of nowhere.

“No,” she snapped. “You cannot come in here right now.”

The officer’s eyebrows flew up. “I thought there was minimal damage. It seems very much like you’re trying to hide something.”

Bulma was not about to be pressured. “Now is not a good time. We’re trying to figure out exactly how the malfunction occurred so we can avoid it in future. Unless you want there to be more explosions?” she countered with raised eyebrows of her own.

Officer Takarabi swallowed and met Bulma’s blue gaze evenly. “Very well, Ms. Briefs. We will be by later.”

“We’ll hold a press conference when the time is appropriate,” Bulma promised sternly, “but not until we have enough information to make it worthwhile.”

The officer turned to leave, and Bulma practically slammed the door behind her. She turned and rushed to the medical wing.

By the time she arrived, Vegeta was banadaged and hooked up to an oxygen mask and intravenous. The medics had gone and only her parents remained, discussing the Saiyan quietly while her father held his charts.

“Well?” she asked. “How is he?”

Dr. Briefs shrugged. “Broken ribs, punctured lung, concussion, fractured elbow, a variety of broken bones in his left foot… I could go on, but I’m sure you’ll read this yourself.” He waved the papers in the air. “But, he is a Saiyan. I’m sure if he takes it easy he’ll be fine in a week or so.”

Bulma looked down at Vegeta. He looked so small and vulnerable lying on the bed, unconscious with all manner of tubes stuck into his body. He looked… human. Reservations Bulma didn’t realize she still held towards him melted away. He carried himself with such closed-off arrogance that it was easy to forget he was a person and not a fortress. He wasn’t unstoppable. He had limits, just like anyone. His heart, however cold and black it may be, beat just like hers. He wasn’t a monster who had just put his evil ambitions on hold: he was a living, feeling creature.

She kneeled by the bed and stroked his arm softly. “Oh, Vegeta,” she sighed.

Mrs. Briefs tittered sadly behind her. “Such a terrible accident,” she mourned.

“Oh, come now,” Dr. Briefs scolded lightly, always the voice of reason. “He survived. I daresay our Saiyan friend will live to see another fight. But we should let him get some rest.”

Bulma had to agree, and she rose to leave. “You idiot,” she murmured to the warrior before she turned to leave.

Vegeta’s voice halted her in her tracks. “Kakarot..!”

She shifted back towards him in surprise. Was he awake? Was he hallucinating? But she saw that his eyes were still closed, and she realized he was having a dream.

His head turned almost violently. “I will surpass you!”

A bad dream.

It didn’t surprise Bulma that Vegeta wouldn’t view his accident as a reason to back off a bit, but rather as an unwelcome obstacle along his path to becoming a Super Saiyan. She figured he’d be irritated that he would have to spend a few short days away from training instead of concerned for his own well being.

A strangled gasp escaped Vegeta’s lips, and Bulma felt that she couldn’t leave. As a living, feeling creature, right now what he needed was support and comfort. She brushed the back of her fingers lightly across his forehead, which was hot with fever, before pulling out the chair at the table beside his bed and plopping herself down in it.

***

Kakarot was there, just ahead of him. He reached out towards him, taking a few steps forward, but was halted by the unexpected appearance of the mysterious purple-haired Saiyan.

“You!” he exclaimed.

They stood together, staring down at him coldly. He stumbled towards them, but didn’t seem to get any closer. And then, in unison, they clenched their fists and cried out as they summoned the energy to transform in Super Saiyans. Their hair rose into the air, lightening to a gold and locking into place. Their eyes flashed from black to green and back again, before settling on the lighter colour. Around them, their kis crackled like flames, the energy ruffling their clothes. They smirked at Vegeta proudly.

They were mocking him.

He broke into a run, but they were too fast. For every step he took, they retreated three more. They were too fast, much too fast for him. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he strained to catch up, but it wasn’t long before they were completely gone from his sight.

He had been left behind.

A voice called his name. It was a voice he had not heard in years, and he doubted it at first.

“Father?” he asked.

As though he were a fly on the wall, a memory played before him. He was young, a child, and he stood haughtily beside his father – at least, how Vegeta imagined he had stood as a boy. And why not? He was heir to the throne and his father let him get away with murder – literally. The Saiyan King and Prince, together, watched space pods depart Planet Vegeta. They had spent so little time together.

“They are the weakest fighters,” the king said. “They are going far away to weak planets.”

Vegeta scoffed. “Bye-bye!” he taunted.

“But you are already a true warrior. You will be the strongest,” King Vegeta promised his son. “You’ve already demonstrated great potential. You will be the first Saiyan in a hundred years to become a Super Saiyan.”

Vegeta had not forgotten his destiny. His father had told him it would be so, and he would be goddammed before a pathetic third-class warrior and sniveling quasi-Saiyan stole that achievement from him. Through everything that had happened to him, the destruction of his planet, the sudden meaningless of his rank and title, the bitter years serving Frieza, his death, Vegeta had hung on to the knowledge that he would become a Super Saiyan one day.

His time was coming. It was so close he could taste it.

Sweat dried on his face as his fever broke. He jerked awake, the oxygen mask falling from his nose as his body involuntarily strained forward. He was confused for a moment. He remembered being in the gravity room. He remembered gathering a huge attack. He remembered the ship shuddering violently around him, and then he remembered clawing his way out of rubble. He must have blown the gravity room up. He remembered the woman darting towards him, helping him sit up, and patronizing him. He didn’t remember anything else after that.

It was clear from his surroundings that he was in some type of healing facility. He was heavily bandaged. A needle was threaded into his vein, dripping liquid directly into his blood. He felt numb and warm, and the pain in his lungs and head seemed far away and unimportant, like it belonged to someone else. He assumed that he had been sedated in some way. He was mildly irritated by that but felt too hazy to give it much thought.

A light snore caught his attention and he turned his head drowsily. Bulma was sitting beside his bed, her head resting heavily on her arms. She was sleeping.

What is she doing here? Vegeta thought. He wondered how long he had been unconscious. He wondered how long she had been there.

He stared at her for a few moments, or perhaps many moments, he couldn’t be sure with the drugs dulling his senses. Hey, he said, trying to rouse her to kick her out of his room, but she didn’t stir, and he couldn’t be sure if he had even spoken aloud.

“I don’t need your help!” he shouted at her and her blue eyes suddenly met his dark ones, but before she could respond he had fallen asleep.

***

Rustling nearby drew Bulma out of her doze. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but she had felt so exhausted from the turmoil of the day and lack of rest the night before that sleep had overcome her before she realized it. Although short, it had been a restful nap. She hadn’t had any dreams of androids that she could recall.

She opened her eyes to see Vegeta peering at her wearily. He was still in the bed, but the mask was resting on his chest, pumping oxygen uselessly into the air.

“I don’t need your help,” he mumbled, and she lifted her head to look at him closer. She was about to ask him how he was feeling when his eyes closed and he fell asleep.

Bulma couldn’t help but grin. Even when loaded full of morphine and barely able to function through a drug-induced haze, Vegeta knew what he wanted, or more accurately what he didn’t, and would not pass up an opportunity to tell her so.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vegeta pushes his limits both with himself and with Bulma. Yamcha is shaken by a dream.

Disclaimer: I do not own DBZ or any of the characters associated with the manga, anime, or movies.

CHAPTER FOUR

The press conference, although stressful, had been relatively uneventful. Nobody seemed to doubt Bulma’s story of a malfunction. Accidents happened. She had reassured them that they were looking into it, and were quite certain they had identified the source of the problem and rectified it. More tests were being performed to ensure that nothing else had been compromised. In the meantime, she wanted to apologize to the residents of West City and thank them for their understanding.

She strode away from the media, taking no further questions, and met with an assistant off to the side. They side-eyed each other, wordlessly acknowledging the barrel of lies Bulma had just fed the press. Bulma had briefed the staff on the legitimate issue, and then informed them of what she would be sharing with the media. She had made it painfully clear that she expected no problems or leaks to the press. She didn’t have to worry: The employees were too terrified of Vegeta to dare say anything contrary to Bulma’s official story, and respected the Briefs’ too much to sell them out.

Once inside the house, she unbuttoned her grey suit jacket and rolled her shoulders. She had never particularly liked press conferences and liked lying to the scrum even less. She was always certain her face betrayed the truth, and she wrestled with what she hoped was a poker face the entire time.

“We may have to get used to this,” Dr. Briefs mused from across the room.

Bulma started. She hadn’t realized he was there. “Oh! Dad, you scared me.”

“I’m sorry, sweet pea,” her father replied. “I know the media makes you jumpy.”

Bulma just sighed, hunching over. “I’ll talk to Vegeta when he’s better,” she said. “Maybe I can bribe him into not destroying any more gravity rooms.”

“Is…” Dr. Briefs started, then stopped short.

Bulma looked up at him. “What?”

Dr. Briefs hesitated. “Well. Is Vegeta planning to… stay long?”

Bulma frowned. “What do you mean? He’s training to help us fight the androids. You know that.”

Dr. Briefs nodded. “Yes. Well. He left to do some work in space before. I was wondering if he planned to do so again.”

Bulma gaped at her father. “Are you trying to get rid of him?”

“No! No, of course not, dear,” he said. “No, nothing like that. Of course he’s welcome to stay. I was just wondering. He is becoming quite the liability.”

“He’s becoming an integral part of the team that will beat the androids!”

Dr. Briefs looked at his daughter in surprise. She was leaning towards him, her hands on her hips and anger on her face. He hadn’t expected such a reaction from her about Vegeta. At best, she had always seemed so indifferent towards him, and at worst, when he pushed her buttons and made demands, angry. But she was right, of course. Vegeta was trying to help save all their lives. He didn’t have to. He owed them nothing. Dr. Briefs’ face softened.

“You’re right, Bulma. I was out of line.”

Bulma straightened and pulled her arms across her chest with a huff. “I know he’s difficult, but honestly, Dad. I didn’t expect this from you.”

Dr. Briefs just shook his head. He sensed a fight coming. Bulma had a stubborn streak a mile long and she could become quite snide. He was often able to avoid her temper because they understood each other’s rational and scientific ways of thinking, but occasionally he came up against her rough edges. Now seemed to be one of those times.

“Why don’t you go on up and see if he needs anything?” he suggested gently, and smiled a truce at her as he wandered away.

Bulma sighed. She had been checking on Vegeta frequently the past couple days. His physical health had improved considerably even in such a short time, but his attitude had soured just as much. He resented being restricted to his bed and tended to by Bulma. He became particularly aggravated when he happened to spot the replacement gravity room set up on the lawn through the window.

Most of Bulma’s visits were purely medical. She checked his vitals, updated his charts, adjusted his morphine dosage, and took X-rays to monitor his progress. He particularly hated the X-rays because it meant he had to let her wheel him down the hall into another room on the gurney. He had never felt so belittled. But she felt compelled to check him regularly because his improvements were so rapid and so unlike a human’s.

Less often, she dropped in just to see how he was. He hated these visits most of all. She made small talk with him and bombarded him with encouraging statements about how he’d soon be back on his feet and he’d be a Super Saiyan before he knew it. Vegeta ground his teeth down and stared deliberately at the opposite wall, a vein popping in his temple.

She made a detour by her bedroom to change out of her uncomfortable office attire and donned her current favourite striped dress before wandering over to Vegeta’s hospital room. This would be a medical visit. She was confident that by now Vegeta could be taken off the morphine drip.

When she entered the room, the bed was empty.

Bulma froze in place, looking at the hanging intravenous cord, flatlining heart monitor, and tussled sheets with growing irritation. It was at that moment that she realized she could hear the unmistakable sound of the gravity room humming away.

That fucking idiot was back training! As if this call had not been close enough!

Incensed, she stomped down to the lab and nearly ripped the computer keyboard apart as she punched in passwords and pulled up the video connection to the gravity room. An image of the inside of the newest model appeared before her with Vegeta spinning circles in the air, bandages hanging off him.

She stared at him for the briefest of moments, her mind blown that he would abandon his much-needed rest for more training, putting himself at even further risk. He was insufferable!

“Vegeta!” she exploded at him. “Just what do you think you’re doing!? You need to rest before you kill yourself!”

Vegeta said nothing but, distracted by her unexpected video call, faltered in his orbit and fell heavily to the ground, driven down by the intense gravity.

“Nothing to say?” Bulma goaded him. “Because you know I’m right. Now come inside this instant!”

He wrenched his neck up to stare at her furiously and Bulma could feel the heat of his rage even through the monitor. “I do have something to say!”

The wince at the end of his sentence was slight, barely noticeable, and if Bulma had not been watching him closely with the observational skills of a trained medical professional, she might have missed it. But she caught it and it was unmistakable: The way his lips pulled downwards in a grimace – not a frown – and his left eyebrow twitched gave his otherwise proud, stoic appearance away. He was in pain.

She became concerned about him. He was obviously not doing well, struggling against the pressure, which was surely doing his cracked ribs no favours. “Something wrong?” she asked, before choking back her worry. He didn’t deserve her compassion when he treated everyone – including himself it seemed – so dismissively. She had done nothing but try to help him since the moment he came back to Earth, and he had done nothing but snarl and glare at her, and expect custom equipment from her and her father. She changed her tone. “Or are you going to apologize to me? If that’s the case, let’s hear it!”

Sparks practically flew from Vegeta’s eyes as he roared, “Leave me alone!!”

Blood pounded in Bulma’s ears and she couldn’t keep the hurt off her face. His words stung. Despite the pain he so obviously felt, he was still determined to remain an island unto himself, accepting help or sympathy from no one, single-minded in his desire to achieve his goal. She knew Vegeta was a proud, angry person, but she didn’t think he was so impenetrable as this. Why was he so incapable of recognizing his limits and accepting the support of people who wanted to help him?

Before her face gave too much away, as she was certain it would, Bulma ended the call and sat moodily at the desk for quite some time.

Vegeta was definitely an enigma to her.

***

The explosion could be seen clear across the city. A bright flash of light followed by thick, dark smoke that hung heavily in the sky, turning day to night. The smell of sulfur singed his nostrils and he coughed uncomfortably, pulling the neck of his shirt over his mouth. All around him, people ran screaming, desperate to put as much distance as possible between them and what used to be Capsule Corporation.

Of course, they had no way of knowing yet that Capsule Corporation ceased to be. But he knew. There was no way the building had escaped an explosion of that size. He hoped desperately that it had been evacuated in time.

They also had no way of knowing that there was no point in running. They could run as far and as fast as they wanted, but there was no escape. Nowhere was safe. Nowhere would be safe ever again.

Beside him, Goku lay on the ground. He looked like he was sleeping but he knew better. His heart had seized and he had crumpled to the floor. Their only hope was dead, and all because of a heart virus.

The androids loomed before him – misshapen shadows cackling mercilessly. Their hands raised and, as energy burst from their palms, apartment buildings, office towers, schools fell into piles of rubble. Screams pierced his eardrums. He wouldn’t forget those screams as long as he lived.

He should do something. He had trained for three years – surely there was something he could do. But his arms felt like lead as he tried to raise them. No matter how hard he tried, it was a struggle to just put one foot in front of the other. If he couldn’t fight, he should at least try to run: a nearby gas station was ablaze and he knew that he needed to get out of there. But his feet felt cemented into the ground.

He twisted around, away from the carnage, and spotted Bulma. He exhaled deeply. Thank god, she was alive. Maybe she had a plan, an invention that could save them. Even if she didn’t, he just wanted to hold her. He tried to reach for her, but his arms were still too heavy.

She slumped into the wreckage of the gravity room, hauling Vegeta out of it. Yes. Good. They needed Vegeta right now, especially if they couldn’t rely on Goku.

But neither Bulma nor Vegeta seemed particularly interested in the androids, who continued to race through the sky, blowing up West City. Debris showered his face as another house fell victim to the androids’ blasts, another scream ripping through the air as someone else lost a loved one.

While all around him people were losing friends and family, Bulma and Vegeta were finding each other. And panic gripped his heart as he watched their lips meet.

Yamcha woke with a start, his entire body flinching. The sudden movement caused Bulma to grunt irritably and roll away from him, but her sleep was barely disturbed. Yamcha’s heart was racing. He was overwhelmed with a feeling of dread… but the dream eluded him. He struggled to remember what had upset him, but already his heart rate was returning to normal and the sense of terror he’d felt when he’d woken was fading into nothing. Beads of sweat cooled on his forehead. With a loud, frustrated exhale, he rolled over and almost immediately fell back asleep.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. and Mrs. Briefs have a chat. Yamcha asks Bulma a question.

Disclaimer: I do not own DBZ or any of the characters associated with the manga, anime, or movies. 

Author's Note: WELL, it sure has been a long time since I updated. I've had this chapter completed for a while but was sitting on it because I wasn't sure if it was the direction I wanted to take. After some tweaking, I've decided I'm reading to post it. Thanks for waiting so patiently!

CHAPTER FIVE

In the weeks that followed, Yamcha began to settle into a more comfortable routine. He felt much more at ease than he had in recent months and a tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying was lifted from his shoulders. He continued to train, of course, and his concern over the androids still remained, but he approached his practice with a less fevered drive than before. He quit training earlier in the evenings, respecting the rest his body needed and deserved, and spent time with Bulma, who was trying to create a droid that could channel ki. 

She had thrown herself into the project with a bout of the old determination he remembered and loved about her: mindless of her surroundings, careless of the time, unstoppable in her resolve to see it through. The finished product would be for Vegeta to use in the gravity room, which had bothered him initially, but Yamcha had come to suspect that her fervid planning, testing, and reassessing had very little to do with the prince. No, Bulma was in it for the science and the pride of accomplishment. He grinned to himself, thinking of her pouring over equations and prototypes, her face grimy with sweat and grease, but her eyes ablaze with purpose and new ideas. He had never understood the way she attacked projects with such single-minded intensity, and it made him feel neglected and nervous in some ways, but her happiness made him happy.

Bulma’s attitude towards Vegeta had cooled considerably since he had refused to let himself heal after his accident in the gravity room. After a few days of irritation, during which time she complained frequently to Yamcha about the way Vegeta had treated her, Bulma’s anger had faded and been replaced with disinterest. She seemed completely indifferent towards him, and he towards her, although Yamcha conceded that Vegeta had never been anything but indifferent towards any of them.

Meanwhile, Vegeta continued to lock himself in the gravity room for hours on end, emerging only to eat, and even then Yamcha often saw him carrying armfuls of full Tupperware back to the ship. He wasn’t sure if Vegeta even slept. Morning after morning, Yamcha passed by the plain guestroom Vegeta had adopted as his own, and through the door, carelessly left wide open, the bed appeared unslept-in. Yamcha suspected Vegeta spent most nights in the gravity room – but sleeping or training, he wasn’t sure. Did Saiyans need sleep the way humans did? Goku undoubtedly enjoyed a good nap, but Yamcha didn’t know if it was a necessity or not. But he shrugged off his musings and chose to focus on more important things: namely, his own training, and rekindling the fire between he and Bulma that had been left unattended as of late.

That afternoon, Yamcha ended his training earlier than usual. In the name of rekindling, he had convinced Bulma to take a night off from work and go on a date with him – a proper date, to a restaurant, not the type of dates they had been having lately, which seemed to consist mainly of ordering pizza and watching Netflix. As much as Yamcha liked that alone time with her, he also missed wining and dining, and with his spirits considerably improved, he wanted to impress and dote on her. He had made reservations at an upscale restaurant in the downtown core, using his former professional baseball player status to secure a table. His stomach had flip-flopped when Bulma had beamed at him from behind her safety goggles when he told her where he was taking her. All day he had been distracted by the thought of their upcoming evening together, and finally he decided to give up on his workout for the day and get ready. 

“I guess this means you two have discussed things?” Puar asked as Yamcha toweled off after his shower. 

“Hmm?” Yamcha asked absently. 

“You and Bulma. Have you talked about everything?” 

Yamcha turned to frown at him. “What are you talking about, Puar?”

Puar fixed Yamcha with a look of utter exasperation. “Weren’t you frustrated because you wanted more from the relationship? Weren’t you going to talk to her about it?” 

Yamcha face relaxed. “Oh, Puar, that’s in the past now. We’re doing great. We didn’t need to have a talk about it; it worked out on its own.”

There were a few moments of silence as Puar hovered nearby before he said, “I see.” 

“You seem bothered by something, Puar,” Yamcha said as he tugged on a button-up shirt.

Puar only sighed and shrugged, roaming over to rest on Yamcha’s pillow. “Have fun tonight,” he said.

***

When Bulma had agreed to dinner with Yamcha, she had been in a good mood. Now, she was in a bad mood. Her most recent prototype had blown up in her face from an electric surge, and her cheek stung where a piece of metal had caught her. She wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed with a cup of tea and a trashy magazine and get lost in trivial matters of the fashion world. But she also suspected that a night out could improve her mood and she was worried about how Yamcha would feel if she changed her mind.

Yamcha had been more positive lately, which she had used to her advantage to get him to help her with her ki-generating droid. So far, however, he had been of little use. He hadn’t been able to clearly explain how he gathered energy, nor how she could potentially begin to design a machine that could do the same. “It’s just… inside you…” Yamcha had said helplessly, and Bulma had pursed her lips and frowned at him.

“How do you get it out?” she’d asked, trying to be patient.

“You… push it.” Yamcha had shrugged. “It’s very hard to explain.”

“Clearly.”

Nevertheless, she appreciated his insight, which was more than she had, and hoped that together they could stumble across the magic method that would make everything click.

So despite her irritation and the headache blooming on her right temple, Bulma tossed her lab coat over the back of her chair and strode out of the lab to get ready for dinner, snagging a bottle of Advil from the corner of her desk as she went.

The warm shower and painkillers helped soothe her, and by the time she was dried off she was in better spirits. Perhaps it wouldn’t be such an unpleasant evening after all. Besides, when was the last time she and Yamcha went on a quality date?

And it was quality: Yamcha was waiting downstairs for her in a proper suit, his tie neatly done up. He grinned as she practically galloped down the stairs. She could dress the part, perhaps, but Bulma Briefs had never been a lady. It was just one of the many things he adored about her.

“Shall we?” he asked, offering his arm, but she ignored it, choosing to grab his lapel instead and haul him out the door.

“No time for chivalry. I’m starving.” And she was: she hadn’t realized until she was getting dressed that she hadn’t eaten anything since the two slices of toast she’d had for breakfast.

Yamcha laughed, following her out to where her aircar was parked and accepting that she would drive, as she usually did. And of course, with her reckless driving habits, they reached the restaurant in record time.

***

“Do you think this will be it?” Mrs. Briefs asked her husband curiously.

“Hmm?” the doctor mumbled, barely glancing up at her from his newspaper.

“Tonight,” she pressed. “Do you think tonight will be the night?”

“Oh, um, yes. Tonight,” Dr. Briefs answered distractedly. He noted that he had just read the same sentence for the fourth time.

They were sitting together in a sitting room just off their grand master bedroom. Dr. Briefs was lounging with his feet up in a leather La-Z-Boy, and Mrs. Briefs was sprawled across the couch, her feet planted underneath a couch cushion in a way that made Dr. Briefs cringe for the upkeep of his furniture. The blinds were open halfway and the orange sunset glow filled the room, turning Mrs. Briefs’ face a rosy shade. She looked beautiful in this light, the faint redness in her hair highlighted. If Dr. Briefs had been less distracted, his breath would have been taken away.

Mrs. Briefs shifted to face him. “You’re not listening, dear,” she said patiently. After all their years together, she had come to understand that sometimes his thoughts were just elsewhere: on scientific projects, usually, but occasionally also on the more corporate side of the company. Recently his CEO had left to pursue a job opportunity in America, and Dr. Briefs had yet to find a replacement for him. The role of CEO then fell to him – a job he wasn’t particularly good at, and also didn’t enjoy. He was stressed.

With a sigh, Dr. Briefs lowered his newspaper. “What are you talking about?” he asked, focusing on his wife, squinting briefly and tilting his head against the sun as it caught him in the eyes.

“Bulma and Yamcha are going on a fancy date tonight. Do you think tonight will be the night?”

Dr. Briefs frowned in confusion. “The night for what?”

“The night he proposes!” she said, fairly squealing at him in her excitement. She pulled her feet out from the cushion to sit upright. “Oh my, how I’ve always dreamed of planning my baby girl a large wedding!” She clasped her hands together and tucked them under her chin, sighing as she imagined the day.

Dr. Briefs blinked at her. “I… don’t know if Bulma wants to get married, dear,” he said gently.

Mrs. Briefs lowered her hands and her head, and let out a sigh. “I know,” she said after a few moments. “She’s always marched to her own beat, hasn’t she?”

Dr. Briefs nodded in agreement. “She and Tights both,” he mused. “Have you heard from Tights recently?”

“But that doesn’t mean I don’t still want her to be happy!” Mrs. Briefs continued on, as though her husband hadn’t spoken. “Do you think she’d be very happy with Yamcha?”

“No.” Dr. Briefs pulled his body back in surprise at his own bluntness, his paper crinkling. He didn’t remember ever consciously having thought about his daughter’s relationship with Yamcha, but when asked the question, he immediately and confidently had an answer. He couldn’t see Bulma being happy with Yamcha forever. He wasn’t even sure if she was happy with him now.

“They seem to have outgrown each other, haven’t they?” Mrs. Briefs said quietly, her excitement diffusing.

There were times where his wife’s observations and intuitiveness surprised Dr. Briefs. She was such an innocent, carefree person that her rare moments of wisdom and understanding caught him off-guard. But of course, he knew she wasn’t the bumbling airhead others took her for. Like a fly on the wall, she saw and understood more than she often let on.

“I think perhaps they have,” Dr. Briefs said. “It’s too bad. I do like the boy.”

The pair lulled into silence, mulling over their daughter’s love life, as parents are wont to do without invitation. The orange light through the window dimmed as the sun dipped lower. The lights in the house brightened automatically to accommodate the darkening day.

“Well,” said Dr. Briefs finally, “Bulma will figure out what she wants. And she’ll be fine no matter what.”

“Oh, yes, of course she will. I’m more concerned about Yamcha. Do you think he’ll find someone else?” Mrs. Briefs picked a scone up off the plate of goodies she’d set on the table earlier and nibbled on it.

“I’m sure he will, dear.”

A few more minutes passed and Dr. Briefs had returned to his newspaper when Mrs. Briefs asked, “What about Vegeta?”

“Hmm?”

“Vegeta,” she said again, vaguely.

The newspaper lowered again, and Dr. Briefs peered at his wife in confusion. He was not following her train of thought. “I don’t think Yamcha is interested in Vegeta.”

She laughed at him, a chirping, genuine laugh. “ _No_! Do you think Bulma would be happy with Vegeta?”

Dr. Briefs’ mouth fell open. “Pardon?”

“I think they would make a good couple,” Mrs. Briefs said.

“I think they hate each other.”

Mrs. Briefs grinned at him. “There’s a fine line between love and hate. Don’t you remember when we first met?”

Yes, the doctor remembered. She had criticized one of his inventions and he had been outraged by her audacity. He had hated her for months after that and made no secret about it; offended, she had gathered up her debutante dignity and refused to attend any event that he was at, lest he try to belittle her publicly. But he had also thought her beautiful, and in the end she had been the only one who had been honest about his ridiculous self-spreading butter knife.

“I think… this is different,” he said slowly.

“It’s not different.” She still had a girlish grin plastered to her face.

“Vegeta… isn’t human,” Dr. Briefs continued, trying to reason with his wife.

“Well, neither is Goku, apparently,” she countered.

“That’s different!”

“Why, because he was raised here?” Mrs. Briefs frowned at her husband. “I think that says more about Vegeta, don’t you? He wasn’t raised here, and wasn’t raised with customs that are anything like ours, and still he’s made the decision to stay here and help us. I think that says a lot about him!”

Dr. Briefs scowled at her. “How long have you been playing matchmaker?” he demanded.

Mrs. Briefs shrugged delicately, her skin turning pink as she turned her head away. “I’m not playing matchmaker.”

“Well, you’ve obviously been thinking a lot about this!” When she only shrugged again, he pressed, “When did this first cross your mind?”

Knowing he wouldn’t let the matter go, Mrs. Briefs turned to her husband. “Do you remember when all those lovely green men came to stay here?”

“The Nameks? Yes.”

“Well, Vegeta came with them, do you remember? That’s when he first came here.”

“Yes, and? You’ve been thinking about it since then? He was even more closed-off then than he is now, if that’s even possible. He wore the same broken, dirty outfit for nearly an entire year!”

She shook her head slightly. “Well, no, not exactly since then. I knew Bulma and Yamcha weren’t together then, and all of a sudden there was Vegeta. I thought he was her new boyfriend. It was just a mistake, but they were both so offended. I think Vegeta in particular had no idea what to make of the situation. I felt bad, actually. But once I’d thought it, I had a hard time shaking the idea…” She shrugged again. “The more I watched them interact with each other, the more I thought that they would make a good couple.”

Dr. Briefs was floored. How much time had his wife invested in this fantasy? “They hardly ever interact with each other,” he pointed out.

“Well, that’s part of it, isn’t it? The absence of interaction is a form of interaction. Why do they avoid each other so much?”

Dr. Briefs threw his hands up in frustration. “Stop trying to psychoanalyze everyone! You should have finished your degree.” When Mrs. Briefs just smiled at him, he continued, “I think they are both too stubborn and proud to get along.”

“They challenge each other. Everyone needs a challenge.”

“It’s a power struggle.”

“Only because they don’t know what they want. That can change.”

Dr. Briefs frowned deeply, his eyebrows furrowing around his glasses. “Sweetheart,” he finally said, “I think Bulma can do better than Vegeta.”

Mrs. Briefs looked at him with some surprise. “Vegeta is a prince,” she declared.

“Yes… but look at how difficult he is!”

“Wouldn’t you be difficult?” Mrs. Briefs chided. “Far away from home, no friends or family here, living with and dependent on others… That must be quite the blow to his ego. Plus the strain of training to destroy the robots… I don’t know if I can blame the boy.”

Dr. Briefs sank back into his chair, sensing that his defeat on this matter was near. “I guess I just wish he was more… personable.”

“There are some who would say the same about you,” Mrs. Briefs pointed out. When Dr. Briefs said nothing, she continued with finality, “They would make a great couple.”

“Maybe, dear,” Dr. Briefs said, “but Bulma is out on a date with Yamcha right now.”

“Oh right!” Mrs. Briefs exclaimed, dropping her half-eaten scone back on the plate. “Do you think he’ll propose?”

***

Yamcha hadn’t proposed.

The meal had been fantastic, and he had loved spending the evening with the beautiful woman now walking beside him. He felt a deep contentment through to his very core. How impossible was it that he, a desert bandit, should end up with such a fantastically gorgeous, intelligent woman as Bulma Briefs?

And she seemed to be having a good evening as well. Following dinner, she suggested they take a walk through the park across the street, one of West City’s largest and most famous parks, because she wasn’t ready to end the night and head home just yet. Yamcha agreed, of course. Anything for this girl. And so they walked together, her leaning against his torso, his arm wrapped lightly around her shoulders, his fingers playing with a stray strand of her hair.

She was perfect. This was perfect. He wanted to take this moment and place it in a box and keep it with him always.

“Bulma,” he said suddenly, stopping short, “listen… I know this isn’t exactly… the way you’d want this, but…” His eyes dropped to the ground and he inhaled deeply. “I… just… it’s that… you…”

Bulma raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you having a stroke?” she asked.

He looked back up at her. “No,” he said, indignant.

One side of Bulma’s mouth lifted in a half-smile. “Well you’re stammering and sweating, so I was concerned.”

Yamcha’s breath _whooshed_ from his lips. “I just know this isn’t how you’d always imagined this.”

Her lips dropped into a confused frown. “Imagined what?” she asked, but the question was barely out of her mouth before her eyes widened and she felt her lips part in an _O_ of surprise.

Yamcha had dropped to one knee in front of her, his jacket that he’d been carrying over one shoulder lay discarded beside him, and his hands reached for hers.

“Bulma… I love you. I’ve always loved you. And I know things have been a little rocky for us lately but they’re getting better. And I want to keep working on that with you, and keep loving you, for the rest of my life. And I know I don’t have a ring yet, but I’m asking… Bulma, will you marry me?”

Bulma’s chest seized and she felt her stomach drop out from inside her. Despite the summer heat, she felt suddenly cold, her blood turning to ice in her veins. She stood stock still, utterly shocked, for an uncomfortably long period of time. Yamcha’s face turned from earnest to confused to terrified to pained, and as the seconds ticked on, Bulma watched these emotions come and go as if in slow motion.

Finally, in a hoarse voice, she whispered, “Please stand up.”

Yamcha’s expression settled on determination. “Not until you give me your answer.”

“Please, just stand up.” Her voice took on a whiny quality as she tugged on his hands.

“Bulma!”

“Yamcha, just _get up_!”

He paused, and his gaze drifted away from her face as he processed. His hands slid from hers. “Are you… Are you saying no?” he asked, his eyes blankly staring across the park behind her.

“Can you just stand up so we can talk about this? For god’s sake, we’re in the middle of a public place.” And as Bulma glanced around, she noticed for the first time the awkwardly sympathetic glances they were receiving from passersby.

“What is there to talk about?” Yamcha asked, his eyes snapping back to hers. “You either want to or you don’t!”

She buried her face in her hands and turned away from him, taking a few steps to put greater distance between them. “We never even discussed this! You said yourself it’s been rough recently… Don’t you think that should warrant a discussion before a proposal?”

“I tried…” he began.

Bulma cut him off. “But you didn’t!” She ignored the knowledge that she had been the one avoiding the conversation, that she had constantly been distracting him from it, that it was her fault they hadn’t resolved their issues.

“Do you love me?” he asked.

Bulma was silent and Yamcha had his answer. Her hush crashed over him like a wave, suffocating him, sending him spinning head over heels, disoriented, drowning, wildly reaching for a lifeline that didn’t exist.

“So. That’s it then,” he muttered. “The past ten years have meant nothing.”

“They haven’t meant _nothing_ ,” Bulma cried, spinning on her heel. He was still on the ground, but on both knees now, looking utterly defeated. “Yamcha, these years have meant so much. But we were kids then. We’ve both grown and changed. I… I do love you, but…” She looked away, suddenly nervous.

“But _what_?”

“Is it enough?”

The silence stretched. What did she mean, is it _enough_? Of course it was enough. Love was the reason he did anything in the world. Love was the reason he woke up in the morning and trained incessantly for the battle with the androids. Love was the reason he went to sleep beside her and let her steal the covers in the middle of the night. Love was the reason he gave up his old life, reformed, and became a proper member of society. Love was the reason he was alive again. Love was the reason she had gone to Namek for the Dragon Balls… wasn’t it?

“Why did you string me along?” he demanded, suddenly angry. “If you knew you didn’t see a future, why did you keep me around?”

Bulma paused. Had she done that? Had she strung him along? It hadn’t felt that way; she had still cared about him of course, and wanted to enjoy their time together. But hadn’t she also known that his feelings for her were deeper than hers for him? Hadn’t she known this train was coming off the tracks? Why hadn’t she ended it? She only shrugged. She didn’t know.

Finally, Yamcha stood, his gaze fixated on a memorial statue several feet away. Silence hung tangibly between them. It was some time before Yamcha turned to face her.

“Bulma. If you walk away from me now, that’s it. There won’t be any more of this on-again, off-again shit. I can’t take it.”

“Are you giving me an ultimatum?”

Yamcha frowned. “No. What is there to give an ultimatum on? You rejected me. I’m telling you that I can’t take it.”

Bulma’s arms wrapped around herself. She was still freezing. But her question sparked hope in Yamcha that perhaps she saw an alternative to their breakup.

“Are you really willing to give us up for good?” he pressed.

It was a loaded question, and Bulma took it seriously. She contemplated the life she would have with Yamcha. She contemplated the life she would have without him; but all she saw in either case were androids.

But what if… what if they defeated the androids? What could life be like afterwards? She imagined it continuing on similarly to now: the sun rising and setting, burning the morning dew off the grass, the clouds coming and going, occasionally pausing to shower away the dirt and grime and breathe life into the trees; Bulma working on a new invention, assisting her father with his own harebrained ideas while her mother laughed and served desserts and lemonade, Bulma running across the globe to collect the Dragon Balls to fix this or that mishap; Goku, Chichi and Gohan visiting from time to time, eating her out of house and home, laughing together around her kitchen table; Krillin lightening dark days with his sense of humour, laughing at himself most of all; Vegeta training, sullen and removed in the gravity room; Roshi being a dirty old man and grabbing her butt when he thought nobody was looking, as if Bulma wouldn’t feel it and crack him across the head; and Yamcha…

Yamcha was there, but in the periphery only, hovering on the edges of her android-free life. A presence in her life, but not a significant one. Not a romantic one.

“It’s time,” she said simply. “It’s got to be time."

Yamcha’s screwed his face into what he hoped was an expression of resolve. “Alright then. I’m going to Kame House. I’ll be by at some point to pick up my things.”

“Don’t be like that. You can stay until you’ve found somewhere else.”

But Yamcha only gave her a sour look and shot into the sky before Bulma could say another word.

And she was left alone in the park, freezing in the humidity, her best friend a speck in the sky.

She made it home several hours later and sat on the couch in her expensive dress, her designer heels kicked carelessly off by the door, caked in mud from the grass in the park, and stared blankly at the black TV screen, thinking vaguely that if she was going to sit there she should turn it on. But she didn’t. She just sat and stared, her eyes dry.

The next morning, she packed a suitcase and headed for the coast. She craved the sun and salt water.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulma takes off for a vacation. Vegeta hatches a plan.

Disclaimer: I do not own DBZ or any of the characters associated with the manga, anime, or movies.

 

CHAPTER SIX

Vegeta was brooding.

He was haunting the balcony off the living room, as he was apt to do late at night. He was perched on the railing with his back against the building and his arms folded. His head was tilted back, the wall creating a bend in his hair, and he stared at the stars.

Somewhere out there, Planet Vegeta had once existed.

Viciously, he forced the thought from his mind. Recently, he had found himself becoming sentimental and nostalgic, and he had neither the time nor the inclination for such trains of thought. Nevertheless, Vegeta was finding it difficult not to think of his people when he was so utterly consumed with fulfilling their most famous legend. The stories swirled in his head, punctuated by rage-inducing memories of Kakarot and that purple-haired kid.

There must be a trick to achieving it, a secret perhaps. Kakarot must have stumbled upon it accidentally. Someone on Planet Vegeta surely would have known: an elder, perhaps. He wished he could remember the stories better. Perhaps the secret to becoming a Super Saiyan was buried in subtle turns of phrase. But there was no one to ask. There was no one left.

Vegeta was undoubtedly becoming stronger. He recognized that. Once, he would have thought his new strength impossible. Surely, he was stronger than Frieza’s final form now. Once, he would have thought that this power was that of a Super Saiyan. But he knew better. He knew there was more. There was a deeper source of strength that he was determined to unlock. Somehow, the work he was doing didn’t seem to be enough.

Vegeta had always been a remarkable fighter: a brilliant tactician with an innate sense of what his opponent would do next, reckless with his own well-being. It was why Vegeta had been spared when Planet Vegeta had been destroyed: Frieza had intended to groom him into an elite Frieza Force warrior. Vegeta was young enough to be manipulated and strong enough to be one of Frieza’s best. Frieza had not anticipated Vegeta’s hatred towards him, indeed towards everyone, and the obstinate way Vegeta lived and worked only for himself. Who else was there to live and work for? There was no one left.

Regardless, it seemed that Vegeta’s natural skills on the battlefield were not prerequisites for becoming a Super Saiyan. He was at a loss. Training had been the answer to everything in his life. He trained to become stronger, but he also trained to remember who he was. He was the Saiyan Prince, and he was ruthless. He trained to prove others wrong. He was strong enough; Saiyans were always strong enough, stronger than everyone else. He trained to remind people that Saiyans were not entirely dead, and they would rue the day they assumed as much. He trained to keep busy between missions, the time between which sometimes stretched out for months, particularly when he was young. He trained because Nappa told him not to: _don’t draw too much attention to yourself, Vegeta; you’re better to fly under the radar_. Vegeta was a fucking prince and he didn’t belong under the radar. But mostly, Vegeta trained to forget: to forget his loss and grief, to forget the life that was stolen from him, to forget the sneers and shoves and brawls in the corridors of Frieza’s ships and planets, to forget the mind games and abuse Frieza directed his way, to forget what it was to be at someone else’s mercy.

But now, Vegeta was having a hard time remembering who he was. Not literally, of course: he would always be the Saiyan Prince; but what did that _mean_? What did it mean to be royalty, born to the throne, destined to lead? Had he ever known? His political training had begun before he was sold into Frieza’s army – a truce between the two empires, allegedly – but it had ended abruptly and that was so long ago. And Vegeta was having a hard time forgetting what he had always been so adept at compartmentalizing and then ignoring completely. With his eyes on the stars, he keenly felt the loss of his planet for the first time in many years.

He shifted, his butt becoming numb from the railing. If he didn’t become a Super Saiyan soon, he felt he may very well lose his mind. What was he becoming, thinking of all this maudlin drivel? He was a man of action, yet he was having a hard time actualizing his goals. His standstill was making him crazy.

Headlights made him squint and blink as a car pulled into the compound. Bulma and Yamcha were back from whatever idiotic event they had attended. But when the engine was cut, only one door opened. Bulma stepped out by herself, her shoulders hunched and her shoes in her hand. She looked disheveled. Her eyes downcast, she walked heavily into the house.

Vegeta’s frown deepened. What the hell did _she_ have to brood about?

* * *

It took Vegeta a few days to realize that Bulma had left. Gradually, he noticed that he didn’t feel her ki, but it was a little more time before he realized that she wasn’t just _out_ , but that she was _gone_. He thought little of this revelation until the control panel of the gravity room began smoking one afternoon, causing the fire alarm inside to start blaring and sprinklers Vegeta didn’t know existed to pop out of the ceiling and spray him with water.

Initially, he had ripped the door off the panel and squinted against the cloud of smoke that billowed out into his face, preferring to try to fix the bloody machine himself than track down one of the humans and make them help him. And he had made a decent go of it, replacing fried cables easily and neatly rewiring the panel using materials he knew Bulma had stashed in the small storage space in the bottom of the ship. Somewhere along the way, he had managed to shut off the sprinklers as well. But when the machine refused to reboot, he realized that the problem must be bigger than just a few ruined wires, and rebuilding a computer was outside his skill set.

With his fists clenched and his jaw tight, Vegeta realized that without Bulma around, he would have to rely on the old man to fix the machine, who although brilliant, didn’t seem to work nearly as fast as his daughter did.

Vegeta was still damp when Dr. Briefs told him that he wouldn’t be able to get around to fixing the gravity room for at least a few days, if not a week or so.

“Next year’s car models are rolling out; it’s always so stressful,” the inventor said on a sigh. “I’ve got to be in and out of the factories making sure everything is going according to plan. Plus we need to update our marketing campaign to reflect the launch... And I need to reschedule my meeting with Honda. Oh my, was that supposed to be today...?”

Vegeta realized Dr. Briefs had started talking to himself, and he made a noise in his throat that sounded ominously like a growl to get his attention back. Dr. Briefs blinked and focused on him with mild surprise, like he’d forgotten the Saiyan was still standing there. “I’m sorry, Vegeta, but you’ll just have to wait.”

Starting to chill from his wet clothing, Vegeta snapped, “Don’t you realize this is the future of your mudball planet at stake?”

Dr. Briefs eyed him warily for a moment, then rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I’m sorry, Vegeta,” he said simply.

Vegeta wasn’t sure at what moment the doctor had stopped being afraid of him, but he didn’t like it. He was used to people jumping at his commands, or else vowing to become strong enough to make them jump next time. But he was stronger than all the pathetic humans on this planet, and nobody at the Capsule Corporation seemed to care.

“Where’s Bulma?” Vegeta finally asked.

“Oh, ah… Bulma?” Dr. Briefs repeated distractedly, a blueprint crumpling in his hand. “She took a trip.” Then, more under his breath than to Vegeta, he muttered, “Lousy timing she’s got, with so much happening here. I really need to talk to HR about hiring someone…”

“So tell her to come back.”

But Dr. Briefs shook his head. “I think she needs the space and time to herself. Big life changes and all that, you know what I mean?”

Vegeta did not know what he meant, at all, but didn’t say as much. Instead he asked, “How long will she be?”

Dr. Briefs shrugged. “I’m not sure. But her birthday is next week, and Bulma would never miss her birthday, so probably soon.”

Vegeta resisted the urge to stamp his foot like a child. “ _Next week?_ What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

Dr. Briefs just shrugged again, disinterested in Vegeta’s problems, his focus going back to the blueprints in his hand (which Vegeta noted looked nothing like a car). “Train outside?” he said absently.

It seemed that Dr. Briefs had been mistaken, because Bulma’s birthday came and went with no sign of the woman in question. Bulma had called that morning to say she wouldn’t be home for her birthday dinner, much to Mrs. Briefs’ chagrin. She later invited Vegeta to eat the untouched birthday cake she had painstakingly baked for the celebration, and retired to her room early. Vegeta had looked at the three-layer cake, topped with strawberries and decorated in pink and yellow flowers, and wondered what this family’s obsession with pink and yellow was. Then, he had plucked the top layer off the cake and taken it to his room with him. Chocolate with a vanilla icing, he ate it all in three bites.

It had been just over a week now that his gravity room had been out of commission, and after much harassing, yelling, and threatening, Dr. Briefs had finally trudged out to the ship that afternoon to begin working on it. But Vegeta had missed quite a bit of training and he resented the unwanted break that had been forced on him. It was unacceptable that he be so dependent on this family of loons for effective training. He was struggling enough as it was to become a Super Saiyan without losing so much time. Was training in that unreliable machine really the only way to become stronger?

As he swallowed his third and final bite of Bulma’s birthday cake, an idea sprang into Vegeta’s head. He’d had this idea once before, and once it had consumed him similarly to the way his training and determination to become a Super Saiyan consumed him now. But perhaps there was still merit to the idea – and without Bulma being home, he doubted anyone would be any the wiser to his plan: Dr. Briefs was so distracted with work and Mrs. Briefs hardly seemed aware of anything going on around her. Smirking to himself, he dumped the empty plate on the table beside his bed and fell asleep almost immediately, sleeping heavier than he had in several months.

The next morning, Vegeta rose early, as per usual, and got dressed with renewed vigor. He was prepared to put his plan in motion right this minute, and he left the room with his mind racing with the potential of his idea. Rounding the bend of the circular house, Vegeta came up short, anger rising in his chest.

The woman was _home_.

At his footsteps, she had turned to look at him, her expression tired from the red-eye flight she had taken home. But despite the exhaustion on her face, she looked like a different person. She seemed simultaneously relaxed and invigorated. Her skin was browned and her hair, previously styled in a big puff around her head, hung heavily down her back, still still pushed off her face with a thick headband. She smiled lightly at him.

“Good morning,” she said, stifling a yawn. “Do you always get up this early? It’s like the crack of dawn.”

Vegeta glared at her. She had not been home for _weeks_ , and this was the day she decided to show up? He decided he could still put his plan in motion, but he would have to wait until she was out, or perhaps busy and distracted. He would have to be more careful, but her presence didn’t derail his plan entirely.

“You seem disappointed to see me,” Bulma said, the corner of her mouth tugging upwards and an eyebrow rising in a teasing expression.

“Fix the gravity room,” was all Vegeta said.

* * *

Mrs. Briefs rubbed her daughter’s arm consolingly. “I’m sorry, dear,” she said.

Bulma just shrugged. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s not _fine_ , it sucks, but I think it’s for the best. It needed to be done.”

She was perched on the couch in the living room, the afternoon breeze blowing warmly through the open windows, telling her mother the story of her breakup with Yamcha and her subsequent flee to the coast.

“As long as you’re happy with the decision, dear, that’s what’s important.”

“I just feel so bad for Yamcha.” Bulma’s head fell into her hands at the thought. “He proposed to me, Mom, and I turned him down. He must be devastated!”

Mrs. Briefs continued to pet Bulma’s arm. “Perhaps…” she said slowly, “but time heals everything. He’ll be fine. I’m sure that sooner or later he’ll understand why you couldn’t say yes. He may even agree that it was the right choice.”

Bulma was silent for a short while before asking, “Do you think we’ll ever be friends again?”

Her mother hesitated. “I don’t know. I think it can be very hard to stay friends with someone you used to be in love with. But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible. I just think that shouldn’t be your focus right now. If it happens, then it does. But you should focus on yourself. And,” she added with a mischievous grin, “focus on meeting lots of hot boys!”

“Mom!”

“Didn’t you meet anyone while you were away?”

“No, Mom! That’s not what I was there for!”

Mrs. Briefs just laughed to herself. “So, what kinds of things did you do, then, if you weren’t out man-hunting?”

In truth, Bulma hadn’t done much. She’d gone shopping, of course, but mostly she’d laid on the beach and read trashy magazines and a few novels. She’d gone to a spa. She’d almost gotten a tattoo, but couldn’t decide on a design and changed her mind, nevertheless bonding with the tattoo artist who was the one who suggested changing her hair instead. Then she’d almost chopped it all off, but thought of the time she’d spent growing it and decided to simply wear it differently for now. But the time alone had been good for her. She’d felt rejuvenated and relaxed, and her anxieties over the future had felt distant and unimportant.

Of course, now that she was home, that was beginning to creep back on her. She found her thoughts drifting to Goku, wondering how his training was going. She wondered if the boy from the future had visited him again. She wondered who that kid was, how he was doing in his own timeline. Suddenly, she felt guilty for taking a vacation when all her friends were working so tirelessly to save the planet. She felt guilty that she was contributing so little. She also felt incredibly burdened.

As though she could read her mind, Mrs. Briefs said softly, “Don’t feel guilty, dear. How can you take care of others if you don’t take care of yourself first? Besides, Vegeta also took a break this week.”

Bulma looked at her mother incredulously. “What?”

Mrs. Briefs shrugged. “I think the gravity room is broken. Your father started to fix it, but I don’t think he had the time to finish it yet.”

“Somehow I doubt Vegeta enjoyed his time off as much as I enjoyed mine,” Bulma said.

“How can he look out for the planet if he doesn’t look out for himself first?” Mrs. Briefs repeated.

“I think that’s a lesson he could stand to learn,” Bulma said with a sigh. “If he asks, I’ll look at it tomorrow. I’m just so tired today. I think I might take a nap, actually.”

Mrs. Briefs ran her fingers through her daughter’s hair, smiling. “Good idea, dear. And happy birthday. Vegeta ate your cake but I’ll bake you another one.”

“You don’t have to—” But Mrs. Briefs was already scurrying towards the kitchen.

* * *

Later, while Bulma napped on the couch in the living room, Vegeta slipped into her room and began his search. He rummaged through her drawers, both disgusted and glad that they were so disorganized and messy for it meant she wouldn’t notice he’d been there. He picked through the boxes of gadgets and gizmos she had piled in the corner, and he fanned through stacks of paper and file folders. But he came up empty.

He went to her office next. Through her desk drawers, in the filing cabinets, and then finally he saw it lying carelessly on the floor behind a shelf. It must have slipped to the floor and gone unnoticed – although how she could be so offhand about something so important and useful was beyond him. Again, though, he realized that this was to his benefit. Bulma wouldn’t notice it was missing.

He tucked the Dragon Radar into his pocket and left.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulma discovers Vegeta's plan. Vegeta prepares to move forward with his idea.

CHAPTER SEVEN

 

“Vegeta is up to something.”

Bulma and her mother were in the living room, the windows flung wide to the late-summer breeze, trashy daytime TV shows running on a seemingly endless loop.

“Oh?” The disinterest in her mother’s voice was frustrating.

“Yes,” Bulma insisted. “Haven’t you noticed? He’s always flying off somewhere these days. The gravity room has been fixed for, like, a week, and I don’t even know if he’s used it yet.”

“I think I heard it running yesterday,” Mrs. Briefs said, flipping the crinkly page of her tabloid magazine.

Bulma rolled her eyes. “Okay, so he’s used it a couple times, maybe. That’s not really the point I’m trying to make.”

Mrs. Briefs peered up at her. “You seem awfully curious. Why don’t you ask him?”

Bulma frowned. “Yes, Mom, great idea. ‘Hey Vegeta, how’s it going? I know you hate talking to people and you really hate letting anyone know anything about yourself, but you’re acting really shady and I’d just like to know, what’re you doing?’”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll tell you.”

Bulma looked at her mother, her mouth a straight, irritated line. “Are you,” she said dryly. “And what makes you so sure?”

Mrs. Briefs shrugged. “Just a feeling.”

Bulma rolled her eyes. “I think you greatly overestimate Vegeta’s social nature.”

Mrs. Briefs said nothing, but began to hum along distractedly to The Price is Right theme song.

Bulma sighed, dropping the conversation, but she looked back out the window where she’d seen him just a few moments ago, streaking across the sky like a comet. Usually, Vegeta didn’t go anywhere off the Capsule Corporation compound. In fact, she rarely saw him anywhere besides the house – and even then only specific rooms most of the time – and the gravity room. Lately, he’d been taking off and going somewhere, or various somewheres if his inconsistent direction was any indication, and Bulma wanted to know why.

Not that she particularly cared what Vegeta was up to. He could do whatever he wanted. He had been doing whatever he wanted from the moment he set foot in the house. But he was such an enigma, so foreign to her, that Bulma felt that by finding out this little nugget of information, she could gain some insight on him. Bulma was a people person, and it bothered her to have such limited understanding of a person with whom she lived in such close proximity. It bothered her that he was comfortable being so reclusive. It bothered her because she was sure that he was _not_ comfortable with it.

In fact, she would bet any amount of money that Vegeta was lonely.

It was several hours later when she saw Vegeta’s blue ki approach the Capsule Corporation. Her bare feet were dipped in the pool and a thick prototype report sat in her lap. She watched as he came closer until his aura disappeared from around him and he dropped gracefully to the ground. Immediately he went to the gravity room and it was only a few seconds until she heard the electrical hum of the machine starting up.

Bulma exhaled deeply. She would find out what he was up to.

* * *

 

She woke up early the next morning and pulled her hair back into a ponytail, out of her face. She donned loose cargo pants and an old tank-top, and then, upon further consideration, grabbed an old Taitans track jacket that was leftover from Yamcha’s pro ball days. She didn’t know where she’d be going today and wanted to be ready for anything. With that in mind, she went downstairs to the weapons room where mostly Vegeta’s new toys sat half-broken and in disarray, and grabbed a holster and some old-fashioned guns. Just in case.

And then she waited, her eyes on the sky, watching for Vegeta’s familiar blue streak to push off from the compound.

She was growing bored after hours of hanging around the main door when finally she saw him step out onto the balcony and take off in a blur. She ran outside, fumbling with the capsule, eager to open it and tail him before she lost track of him. The jet appeared with a _bom_ and she scrambled in, cranking the engine to life, and shooting across the flat grass as far as she dared before pulling up into liftoff.

Bulma had been left behind by her friends far too often for her liking, and because she did not possess the power of flight herself, she had done the next best thing: designed a plane that could reach speeds upwards of eight thousand kilometres per hour, the fastest in the world, to follow them. But more important than the speed of the plane was the radar she had installed: based off the technology she had gleaned from the old Saiyan scouter left behind by Raditz, she had developed a radar that could track her friends based on their ki. The scouter had been able to pick up power levels and provide a reading. Bulma didn’t care for the level of strength itself, but had used the same measuring technology to enable her to pinpoint where the source of the ki was, provided she was in range. When she had designed it, she had never expected to use it to follow Vegeta.

But here she was, his blip of ki solidly within her radar’s range, and she settled in, smiling to herself, as she allowed him to remain a few hundred kilometres out from her, thankful he wasn’t flying too quickly.

It was some time before the blip on her radar stopped moving, indicating his descent, and she, too, reduced her altitude. She saw that they were over a canyon of sorts, and she circled around a few times before finding a space clear enough for a landing. It was rough and she was glad for her strong stomach. She double checked the plane’s radar before encapsulating it, exchanging it for another capsule that revealed a motorcycle, and she jumped on to continue on as her radar had directed. She estimated that Vegeta was less than one hundred kilometres out – a little closer than she would have liked, as she was sure he’d noticed her plane landing, but it did mean that she would reach him sooner. She grinned to herself as she took off. Outside of the city, where there were no cops or speed limits, she could really open up – and she did, pushing her bike faster and faster.

She didn’t slow down until she was sure she was nearly upon Vegeta, and then she came right down to a crawl, nearly tipping over as she coasted closer. She realized that without another radar, it would be nearly impossible to pinpoint his location, and she made a mental note to install a second one on the bike, or perhaps build a portable one that she could carry with her. She could apply the same principals she had to the Dragon Radar—

She braked and cut the engine suddenly as she crested over a hill and saw him in the distance, standing in a small patch of grass that was browned and burnt from the dry conditions. She hadn’t realized how loud her bike was until she turned it off, and suddenly the silence was deafening. She winced. For all her stealth, Bulma was certain that Vegeta knew she was following him. Even if by some chance he hadn’t heard her motorcycle, he could sense ki and she didn’t think he possessed the skill of relaxing enough to not be aware of his surroundings. Besides, he had been acting so suspiciously she was certain that he would be on-guard. So she didn’t think it was necessary for her to creep around the rocky formations that sprouted up from the ground and she walked nearer, but she did so anyway.

As she leaned against a particularly jagged rock, a sharp piece poking into her shoulder blades, she could hear him moving around. Something clinked against something else in a way that made her think the objects were fragile, and she frowned in confusion. Just what was Vegeta _doing_? Deciding to seize her moment, she peered out from her probably unnecessary hiding spot, and gaped angrily.

He had the Dragon Balls.

All seven Dragon Balls, to be precise, were placed in a neat circle with one in the centre, and Vegeta was stepping back from his handiwork. He had the Dragon Radar in his hand and she watched as he stuffed it into his pocket. Where had he gotten that? she wondered. It was a moment before she realized he must have snagged it from her office. She felt irritation rise in her chest.

Vegeta paused for a moment, looking at the starred balls, and then turned his head ever so slightly in Bulma’s direction.

“Come to try to stop me, then?” he asked.

Bulma heard the challenge in his voice, decided not to rise to it. Instead she stepped out from behind the rock and into the sunlight, all her effort in sneaking after him gone like a puff of smoke. “I don’t think I can stop you,” she admitted. “You’re much stronger than me.”

She saw his mouth pull downward into a frown. “Why are you creeping around, then?” he asked. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“I could say the same to you,” she returned irritably, and he turned back towards the Dragon Balls with an annoyed huff.

“You didn’t have to steal the Dragon Radar, you know,” she carried on. “I would have just given it to you if you’d asked.”

“Is that so,” Vegeta said dryly.

“I know you don’t believe me.”

“No, I don’t.” He turned around completely so he could face her head-on. “Why would you give it to me? You don’t even know what I plan to wish for. Maybe I plan to wish Kakarot dead.”

“Shenron couldn’t grant that wish,” Bulma explained patiently, “because—”

“I don’t care,” Vegeta snapped. “That isn’t my wish. My point was my wish could be anything.”

Bulma nodded, agreeing. “Yes. It could. But I trust that you would make a decent wish.”

Vegeta stared at her a moment, processing. She watched as his eye twitched in irritation, as his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He was trying to figure her out, she knew. He was trying to figure out what game she was playing. She stood and waited. She wasn’t playing a game. The truth was she did – perhaps stupidly – trust that Vegeta would use the Dragon Balls wisely.

Why? she wondered to herself. Why did she believe that? When had Vegeta ever given her a reason to believe that he would make a pure wish?

“That’s foolish,” he said at last, and Bulma couldn’t deny it.

“So what is your wish?” she asked as he turned away from her again.

"That’s not your concern.”

She shrugged. “Alright then. I’ll just wait here while you make it and then I’ll know.”

He rounded on her angrily. “Are you going to try to steal it?”

“No.” Lowering herself to the ground, she crossed her legs and leaned an elbow on her thigh, her chin coming to rest on her palm: a picture of disinterest.

“Why are you here?” Vegeta demanded.

“Well, Vegeta,” she said with an exasperated sigh, “you were sneaking around, you weren’t worried about the gravity room, you didn’t seem to be training. Obviously you were up to something.” She gave him a cheeky grin. “I wondered if perhaps you’d found yourself a lady. Or a gentleman,” she amended at his disgusted expression.

“As if I would debase myself—” he began, but she cut him off as though he hadn’t spoken.

“To be honest, I was curious. You’re such a mystery, Vegeta. I just wanted to know what you were up to.” She sat back a bit, her hands meeting the ground behind her so she could lean on them. “So are you going to tell me, or are you going to make me wait?”

To his surprise, Vegeta considered it. He considered telling her. Why not? He would make his wish one way or another, and maybe if he told her she’d leave him alone sooner. Otherwise, she’d stick around and watch him awkwardly summon Shenron (he wasn’t entirely sure how to do it – he’d only seen it happen a couple of times) and make his wish. But telling her would feel like he was confiding in her, like he was letting her in on his little secret, and Vegeta was nothing if not closed-off. The longer he watched her though, the longer he let the silence grow between them – surprisingly comfortable, no pressure from her to move the conversation along – the more his guard cracked.

“I’m going to wish to become a Super Saiyan,” he said, finally.

Bulma’s eyebrows flew up in surprise and she leaned forward seemingly without noticing. He instantly regretted telling her. He could see the judgment on her face. He knew she was about to stop him.

“Oh!” was all she said, but the astonishment was heavy in her tone.

Vegeta frowned at her, unsure how to proceed. What was it about this woman that always had him guessing at what to do next? She was so difficult to read and she never did what he expected her to do. It was infuriating. Finally he moved his attention back to the Dragon Balls, deciding to go forward with his wish.

Her voice stopped him. “Are you sure that’s what you want to wish for?”

There it was: her attempt to stop him. The very reason he had hesitated in telling her in the first place. The very reason he had snuck around and gathered the Dragon Balls behind her back.

“Of course I’m sure,” he snapped.

“Well, it’s just that, you were really sure about immortality before. What changed your mind about that?”

He sneered at her. “Once you’ve already died, it seems like kind of a stupid wish.”

“Oh,” she said, her face brightening with comprehension. “You were afraid of death—”

“No—”

“—so you planned to cheat it—”

“That’s not—”

“—but now you realize it’s inevitable.”

“Shut up,” he said bitingly. “You don’t know anything about it.”

“So what, then?” Bulma asked. “Enlighten me.”

But he just glared at her, refusing to say anything more. He had already shared enough with her for one day – for a lifetime – and he was completely unwilling to divulge anything else. She wanted to understand him but he didn’t want to be understood. Maybe he was beyond understanding.

Her face suddenly became serious and she met his eyes squarely. “This is why I think you shouldn’t make that wish. I’m not saying I’m going to stop you: if you really want to make it, then make it, but I think you will regret it and be unhappy with it.

“Vegeta, it’s cheating. You’d be taking the shortcut. You won’t have earned that strength, you won’t have _earned_ the power of the Super Saiyan. You’ll always wonder if you were actually good enough, actually strong enough, to become a Super Saiyan on your own. You’ll always know that Goku didn’t have to wish for it: he unlocked it himself, somehow. You’ll always wonder if maybe you’d just waited a little longer, worked a little bit harder, you could have earned it too. And I think you feel the same way about immortality, too. Yeah, nobody could defeat you, but not because you’re the best or the strongest. Because you can literally cheat death. And what kind of victory is that? It seems like it would be empty or shallow to me.”

She shifted and let her gaze fall to the ground. “If there’s one thing I know about you, Vegeta, it’s that you are fucking _determined_. Honestly, you’re probably one of the most ambitious people I know. You set goals for yourself and you refuse to let them die, even when it’s hard, even when it seems impossible. You have a confidence in yourself that’s frankly enviable, even if it’s sometimes obnoxious to the people around you.” She looked up at him for a brief moment, offering him a grin. “But this just seems like giving up.”

She sighed, pressing her hands into the ground to help herself stand up. She dusted the dirt off her pants. “Like I said, if you’re set on making this wish, then do it. But I know you can become a Super Saiyan on your own, and I’m willing to help you if you’d just let me. We can collaborate on tech, I can try to create things that you think would help you best, we can work towards it together. And if you want to do it yourself, that’s fine too. Sometimes things have to be achieved independently. But making this wish would make being a Super Saiyan a sham. And I think you know that.”

He stared at her, stiffly, quietly, the Dragon Radar suddenly feeling heavy and bulky in his pocket.

She granted him a smile then. “Thanks for telling me your plans,” she said sincerely, and she tossed a capsule on the ground, her bike reappearing in a puff of smoke, and she was on it and roaring off without another word.

Vegeta watched after her long after he could no longer see her. He felt distinctly uncomfortable, as though someone had found something he had hidden under the floorboards in hopes that it could be hidden forever. Finally, he took up her spot on the ground, his knees bent upwards, and looked at the Dragon Balls for a long time.

* * *

Her entire flight home, Bulma kept waiting for the sky to darken with the telltale signs of Shenron’s summoning. She couldn’t help but feel anxious about it, growing more and more so as the minutes ticked by and nothing happened. It wasn’t until she was nearly back at the compound, already coming down for a landing, that the sky blackened like there would be a sudden, torrential rainstorm.

She sighed deeply. What a shame.


End file.
